Enlighten Me
by Aevium
Summary: REVISED VERSION. Zoro can't let go of his past while Sanji is desperate to forget his own. From a stroke of luck, their paths cross at a retreat and they build a friendship. But that line begins to blur as they experience an unusually fierce connection. Zoro/Sanji - MODERN AU. Heavy emotion & angst. Slow build relationship.
1. Chapter 1

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— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

**Chapter One****:**

"_Patipada:_

Road, path, way;

the means of reaching a goal or destination."

— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

Fall was his favourite season. The sound of leaves skittering across natural stone, the cool weather perfect for relaxation, the hollow wooden clack of the shishi-odoshi after filling with water and connecting with the ground to empty it. Multi-coloured leaves occasionally tapping his face as if trying to awaken him. He wouldn't dare fall for their lure. Not in a state like this. But he liked their challenge.

Meditation was a difficult process—his master had taught him that it wasn't calmness that guided people to meditate, nor a perfect balance in life that everyone wanted to gain. No. It was listening to a melody within yourself. Simply listening. And then nothing. It was nothing.

But it was something, all the same.

He thought of nothing when he meditated. That's what practice did—sort of a weird concept, practicing to gain no thoughts—he was very practiced, so much so that he wielded an impressive amount of control over his body. He was good. Some would call him a master. But he wasn't fully there yet. He still had something he was looking for.

Suddenly a black-haired woman jumped into his vision, leaning down sideways with a soft, cocky smile. _What are you doing, Zoro?_

He jerked awake. Clenched a hand over his sweat-stricken face.

Tearing off his warm comforter and leaving it folded over crumpled sheets, Zoro stalked out of bed, wobbling slightly in the process, before finding a comfortable pace to synchronize with his drowsiness. His hand clenched the doorframe of his room before he launched off of it slightly, towards the bathroom across the hall of his apartment. He flipped the toilet seat up expertly and kneeled down before retching the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl. He had another round of it until all that was left were his dry heaves. He sat there for a while, breathing heavily, then sat up and flushed the toilet. He didn't bother to watch the water spiral and instead stood and rinsed his face off. Grabbing a cup by the sink he filled it with water and downed it hungrily.

Fuck. He needed to get that nasty bile out of his mouth.

He quickly squeezed the minty paste onto tiny bristles and immediately got to work. After layering over his mouth twice, he held tap water in his mouth and gurgled lightly, before spitting the minty-saliva mix into the sink. He rinsed again, spit, and then turned the water off. Leaning over the counter and refusing to look at himself in the mirror, he swore.

"Fuck." The first time it was clear and concise, almost venomous. If anyone had seen him they would've known to take a walk. The second time, however, was broken and raspy, "_Fuck_."

There was a loud bang just to his left. It didn't take him long to realize it was his own fist on the counter, throbbing faintly as evidence. Zoro stayed like that until he felt the need to move around. He flicked the light off as he exited the bathroom and strode into his bedroom again. He picked up some clothes, then walked briskly into the living room and kitchen. He didn't live in an extraordinary apartment, but it was clean—or he for the most part tried to keep it that way—and the layout was simple but appealing, something he was satisfied with.

Zoro needed relief. He threw on a jacket—he didn't know which one—and some shoes, locked the door behind him and was gone at midnight.

— «»»««» —

The cheers and shouts never ceased to make him cringe as he watched callous arms in the air of the crowd, waving around with liquor clenched in excited hands. He weaved his way through, and made it to the bar, surprisingly.

Yes, he needed relief and coming to this noisy bar was his best shot. He was aware of how little sense that made, but hell, wherever there was booze he was happy. He just needed to drink and feel that familiar buzz. Sometimes his clear conscience worked to get on his nerves. Like when he'd woken up from that dream. Clenching his teeth, he asked the bartender rather stoically for a beer, and was handed one quickly. That's why he loved this place, Jaya, the customer service was outstanding. And if you were a regular, you could sometimes get beers on the house. Such wasn't the case this night though, but alas, Zoro wasn't one to complain.

It wasn't as if he couldn't afford one good beer. It was, however, the sheer amount that he drank which lightened his wallet a bit too much...

Zoro was only mildly surprised when he felt someone prod at his shoulder, catching his attention. He turned around to see a familiar face that he didn't expect to see. He forced a smile. "Hey Ace. Working?"

"Nah, it's a fun night. I finished a big presentation today, need to let off some steam," the tall, lean but muscular man said as he circled around the bar seat next to Zoro's and plopped down. He was definitely tipsy, Zoro could tell by how sluggishly his limbs moved. Ace was usually more coordinated than that, especially when he worked behind the bar, mixing drinks with precision and sliding them over to customers.

Ace was studying in college for human resources, though the guy had too much passion to fit into that mundane career choice. But he'd been forced to raise himself with a conservative mind frame, given that his family wasn't exactly capable of throwing money at Luffy and him.

Zoro snorted. "Sure you're not forgetting an assignment due tomorrow? It's not like that hasn't happened before on party nights."

"I checked, dude. Nothing. Chill, have a beer—er, have _another _beer." Ace waved the bartender over and ordered two beers. "So what are you doing creepin' up the place, looking so solemn?"

Unconsciously, Zoro drummed his fingers on the beer clenched in his strong grasp. He did this when the stress slowly starting pooling out of his body. Ace tended to make him feel very relaxed. He was this strange mix of quiet, polite but still very sociable and that's what made him both tolerable and a good foil to Zoro's generally more antisocial personality. Even though he'd only known Ace for about two years, he felt like they had become very close. Zoro himself had a cold demeanour but once his outer shell was cracked open—which always was a pain in the ass for others—his inner personality pooled out.

"Meh," Zoro grunted. "Couldn't sleep."

The crowd behind them made a loud cheer when the band finished their song. Zoro liked this bar a lot because while it was big enough and packed enough to be considered a club, it had a relatively calm atmosphere. As calm as a place like this _could_ get, anyway. And usually the live bands they put on stage were decent. Not the usual techno-house genre you'd hear at clubs and raves. He really just found this place to be well handled.

Ace's face fell into a worried expression. "That again, huh." He looked ahead of him when Zoro didn't respond. "I gotta say, all that meditation you do doesn't seem to have any effect."

Zoro stared into the near empty beer bottle, his eyebrows furrowed. He didn't want to talk about this. Just maintained a hardened expression that barely reflected him properly on the glass, distorted and skinny along the neck of it. Barely recognizable.

"Yeah," was all his response. It was neither an agreement nor an argument. Just a weary breath slipping out.

Ace knew Zoro hadn't been able to sleep properly for a while now. "Look, man, Zoro. Maybe you should go see a sleep doctor or something. I'm worried it'll start affecting your job, you know? I mean, you move around heavy shit, man. Shit could happen."

"Ace, just drop it. I don't want to talk about it."

Ace did as he was told. It irked him to no end that Zoro wouldn't accept help when it was obvious that the man got little sleep, but he knew when and when not to hold his tongue and now was definitely not a moment to press. He could see it in Zoro's eyes, he was ready to erupt—the way his fingers gripped that glass bottle and released it systematically. The man was oozing danger off of him. Ace decided it best to change the subject.

"So you work tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah. Night shift. You?" Zoro responded, putting his anger behind him. Ace was employed as a bartender at this very bar while Zoro worked at a truck delivery service that delivered food within the city. Mostly heavy foods in bulk, like rice, flour, potatoes, cheese. Things like that. He also worked with a variety of other products and supplies, sometimes for construction or home furnishings, but his company mostly worked with restaurants. When he first arrived here from Japan, he was supposed to streamline right into a police foundations course. Even while everything had been taken care of, he couldn't scrounge up the energy or motivation to continue his studies and ended up finding work to keep himself busy and on his feet. It'd been two years since then.

"Yeah, I'm going out with Luffy tomorrow. Says I haven't been around enough. All I gotta do is take him to lunch and he'll shut up," Ace chuckled, rubbing a hand through his dark hair. His freckles still showed up against the dim lighting and never ceased to hide his handsome and endearing features. The natural brown spots seemed to have a higher concentration on his sharp, perfectly elongated nose.

"Dangle a strip of steak in his face and he'll be as loyal as a dog," Zoro laughed.

Ace laughed back, and when it died down he decided to ask, "You're going away to that place this weekend right?"

"Yeah," Zoro confirmed. "Should help some."

That _place _Ace was referring to was Zoro's monthly 'get away' weekends, where he drove up north in Ontario, close to Québec. He'd found a nice Japanese-inspired meditation retreat that made him feel closer to his birthplace. Close to _her_, as well. But he didn't know anymore if that was a help or a hindrance.

The bar was closing in half an hour but he and Ace received two more beers, on the house—looked like the owners were being generous tonight after all—and they pressed them together with a _clank_.

— «»»««» —

The rest of the week was a long and gruelling process for Zoro. Nothing too interesting happened to him at work despite how much Ace liked to warn him that being sleep deprived would leave him pinned under piles upon piles of rice. His job was boring, but at least it kept him physically active. Still, he often wondered if he would ever consider applying to college any time soon.

And now, to his utmost relief, he had his monthly weekend off of work. Zoro worked too many shifts on average—it helped to take his mind off things—so it had become routine that Zoro was never scheduled for work for a three day weekend of his choice around the middle of the month. It was rare that he used this time to lounge about his apartment in the city.

The meditation retreat he went to, called Ohara Falls, was a beautiful place in northern Ontario. It was set up on a small body of water called Lake Clear, near the Ontario-Québec border. Driving up there was about a four hour trip. He didn't mind the drive, he often craved a nice long drive up north, and currently he couldn't pass up the leaves turning at this time of year. It was worth it when driving through the country, which comprised of most of the route. He made sure to bring his AUX cable for his phone to enhance the drive and keep his thoughts at bay.

He had a dark green duffel bag with him that was mostly empty, because part of the experience at a retreat was to be ascetic—not for the purpose of virtue but rather a preparation for a transformation, or enlightenment. The trick was to find a balance, to be both ascetic and hedonistic; to neither indulge nor over indulge; take what you need, not what you want. That was part of the focus of his training.

This was what he had learned from his kendo master back in Japan. He didn't practice it for religion or philosophy, but because it calmed him. It was therapeutic for him. He did it because he currently hated the routine of his life, he hated being haunted by his past, he hated city life. He simply did it to escape. However it didn't take away his insomnia—which, incidentally, wasn't really insomnia more than it was a bothersome pattern of dreams that kept him from sleeping. Memories, sometimes, which he didn't want to relive. Shadows of his past he wanted to keep chained in the dark corners of his mind. But he couldn't control it when he slept because it was the only chance for those shadows to relinquish themselves from the restraint he mentally bound them with.

That being said, sleep did not come easily for him.

In his bag he had a toothbrush, some water, soap, and his misty black meditation robe and pants. He did bring his cell phone too, for the music of course, but also just in case something important came up. But that was about all he needed. Almost all. Also within that dark green duffel bag were his three prized possessions. Three swords. Where else would he able to practice with them with nature as his own personal dojo?

He made his way to the underground parking lot where his black Jeep was waiting for him. His buddy Usopp—a computer programming student whom he'd met through Ace—worked at _Franky Fix _and they both knew the owner Franky quite well, so the two handymen had managed to hook him up with this car that was apparently going to be used in a movie but had to be sold off last minute. Franky was pretty generous and gave it to Zoro for a pretty decent price. His business thrived anyhow, since the guy was such a great handyman for so cheap the place was always bustling with customers.

And so, after leaving Toronto that Saturday morning at five, he drove on and on and on.

He watched the endless fields of oranges reds and yellows blur by to the melodic tune of _Scarborough Fair_. Then he realized how much the song reminded him of his parents, who often left Western classics on like this as background noise in the house whenever they were home with him. He reached over and turned it off.

Running a hand through his short, choppy green hair Zoro accelerated a little, feeling free from the imaginary leash tying him to the city. It was impossible to drive in any city, but out here, on these seemingly lawless highways stretching out into a country life he could only remember in his childhood, Zoro felt a little slice of freedom.

— «»»««» —

Zoro rewarded himself a smile as he opened the door of his Jeep and climbed out. He left the door open, leaning on it gently in front of him and shifting his weight to his left leg. He stared at large hill in front of him, a set of stone stairs lining it straight up the middle. Everything seemed to be as he'd remembered it.

However, there was a change.

Why were there so many damn cars? The place was _never_ this busy. Ohara Falls was a quiet retreat that didn't usually get that much attention. In fact it didn't even have a parking lot, people just parked on the side of the road—which was why there was a chaotic cluster of vehicles in front of him, forcing him to have to park further back from the stairs.

Hoping it wasn't so busy that he would have trouble finding some peace and quiet, Zoro swept his bag up, locked his car and walked towards the long staircase. Once at the top he looked around, seeing a group of what looked to be tourists from—well, they sounded Scandinavian. Zoro couldn't pinpoint which country, but either way, they must've been here touring Canada, and stopped by this retreat. So that explained the cars.

Didn't help if it meant it was busy, though.

Zoro stalked by without looking at the tourists for longer than socially acceptable and checked into his usual reserved cabin quickly. Since he was a regular, he was in a membership of this retreat, and so he got some discounts on the price. He also managed to get one of the best spots more than half the time, directly on a cliffside overlooking Charleston Lake. When the weather was warm, like in the beginning of autumn like this, he liked to meditate overlooking the sparkle of that lake. He would sit out there until the sun set, and when he opened his eyes, there were infinite stars.

He trekked through the series of trails and heard those familiar shishi-odoshis. He liked that this place paid homage to Japanese culture; it did really help him with his object meditation—focussing on something mentally or visually to help straighten wandering thoughts. The sound of pouring water and the hollow thud really did something for his mind. Perhaps it reminded him of his trips to Kyoto.

Finally the twenty one year old made it up to his cabin, number 22. It was a relatively small cabin, and had a deep brown pan-tiled roof with some vegetation growing from underneath and over the tiles. The walls were coated with a worn brick pattern, a mixture of burgundies, tans, and browns. The front door was a simple wooden one, with a small deck and there were multi-coloured trees surrounding from all around. Zoro knew from memory that inside the little cabin, directly across from the entrance was a fusuma-styled door that divided the meditation room from the living room of sorts. The design on the paper of the fusuma was a blurry mix of bamboo and sharp leaves, having a watercolour effect. Near it, there was a thick, chocolate coloured vase with bamboo sprouting out on the ground. The bathroom was on the same side as the entrance, facing away from the lake. The bathroom was simple, and had a tub but no shower. Baths were encouraged more.

Zoro walked into the cabin and set his bag down in the bedroom, which was beside the meditation room, digging through it to find his robe and pants. He picked them up, slid the fusuma open and set them down on the pillow, neatly folded. He was met with a brilliant light hidden from the rest of the cabin partially by the paper doors. The meditation room was small, but almost the whole wall facing Zoro was pure window and wooden frames. The middle part of it was also a door when unlatched. The window overlooked the lake and had tree branches and leaves in the edges of that field of view. And finally, the reason the place was called Ohara Falls, a brilliant waterfall striking down on his left, separated by a gap in the rocks. It was like a painting.

Comparing this world to that of a painting might've been the best way to express just how much this place was an escape to him.

— «»»««» —

He had accomplished a bath and a quick walk to the cliffside so far. He was just settling down to begin his meditation when he heard the front door open and shut. He peeled an eyelid open, confused. Did someone just enter his cabin? Who the fuck?

Zoro slowly rose as he heard hasty footsteps travelling all over the cabin, seemed to be searching, searching, searching...

He saw the blurred outline of a person appear over the screen. He braced himself to see who this person was that had mixed up cabins. The fusuma was suddenly opened rather improperly. Zoro wouldn't be surprised if some of the paper had been torn in the process.

"Ah," recoiled a thin, tall man with blond hair in slight surprise. Clearly he didn't expect to find Zoro standing there like a stone statue. The two stared at each other for a painstaking moment before the stranger spoke up.

"Where's the fucking kitchen?"

— «»»««» —


	2. Chapter 2

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— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

**Chapter Two****:**

"_Sambavesin:_

(A being) searching for a place to take birth."

— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

"A kitchen?" Zoro asked, dumbfounded.

"You deaf? That's what I said," the blond guy rudely clarified. He had a slight slur in his voice, indicating some kind of accent. French, maybe? Either way it was very subtle. And it annoyed the hell out of Zoro, subtle or not.

"_Excuse_ me?" he responded, incredulous. This prissy blond bitch—whoever he was—was already becoming a major thorn in his side. "You waltz in my cabin asking that? Which, by the way, is the dumbest thing I've ever heard—you were expecting a _kitchen_? Feel free to use the woodstove, that's the best you'll get here. This isn't a five-star hotel, you moron."

The blond reeled. "I don't even know where to begin; I guess I'll do it respectively. _Waltz_ in? I was assigned this cabin, number 22, check the key number, fucker," he nearly jammed the damn thing up Zoro's nose for him to get a close look. "Second, yes, I was expecting _some_ sort of heating agent to cook with other than fire and wood. I can't believe this. I'm going to feel like a fucking caveman..." he went off in a tangent. Zoro simply stared at him, disbelieving. The key _did_ have the number 22 on it. What the fuck was up with that? "Last, what did you call me, you weed-head fucker?"

It was hard for Zoro to tell that this guy was finished his rant, but when he ended with that final insult he knew every last scrap of his consideration was going right out the window. "You think that blur of bitching and swearing was done 'respectively'?"

It took a moment for the blond to realize what part of his tangent the muscled idiot was referring to, but then it hit him. He almost laughed but the undisguised chuckle in his next words made up for it, "Apparently I _am_ stuck with a caveman, because you're a real intellect, aren't you? _'Respectively'_, as in, addressing to the things you said in the order you said it. Fucking caveman."

Zoro had to admit he did feel a little dumb for that, but English—no matter how much practice he'd had in Japan and especially here now, in Canada—was not his mother tongue. He did in fact know the meaning of that word, but in that moment he didn't quite catch onto it as quickly as he liked to think himself capable. It happened to be a poorly timed fluke.

"I know what it means, asshole." Before the guy could cut in Zoro did him the honour, "Get the fuck out already, I don't care what your key says, I came up here for a weekend _alone_ and I would've tolerated this setback if you weren't such a little bitch."

That really ignited the flames in the blond's icy blue eyes—or eye, rather, since the left one was covered by a curtain of hair. "What did you call me?"

"I called you," Zoro stepped up with a low voice, prodding a finger at the blond's chest which made him flinch ever so slightly. "A little bitch, curly brow."

The blond dropped his things with a thump and a clatter—and there were many bags, Zoro observed with a scoff—and stretched his full height against Zoro. It was an impressive change in height as he normally seemed to stand with a cool slouch. But still, probably much to the blond's chagrin, Zoro was taller.

"You wanna fight or something, you grass head?" he finally growled in a deadly whisper.

Zoro smirked. "Tch, your scrawny ass can't take me, don't even tr—" He felt a sharp pain in his jaw and slammed to the ground, not even knowing what had hit him. Had the asshole been hiding an aluminum _bat_ in his pocket or something? But no, aluminum would have sounded metallic—and likely would have broken his jaw. All he'd heard was the familiar impact of flesh on flesh.

Zoro recovered quickly, despite his confusion, and jumped into an offensive position. He was best with his swords, but he could still fight barehanded at an inhuman level, if need be. Besides, he wasn't about to waste his freshly polished swords on this asshole. He'd get in shit for that anyway. No, he'd fight fair. Even though this guy wouldn't have any advantage on him now that he was _pissed_.

"That was a wimpy cheap shot," Zoro degraded. He stood firm and waited for the impatient blond's next move. He watched as his opponent's handsome features twisted up in anger at that condescension and knew when the blond would strike. He caught the soaring long leg with precision and proceeded to try and get him into an inescapable lock on the ground, but the blond was, in a way, unsurprisingly flexible enough to curl his spine backwards, reaching back with his hands to touch the ground and gain some leverage. Now upside-down, the deadly kick from his left leg was simultaneous, straight into Zoro's chest. Zoro wheezed and, disappointedly, let go of the deceptive blond's leg.

"Was _that_ a cheap shot, shithead?" the blond taunted in his cool, suave voice that made every nerve in Zoro's body tingle—but not with anything other than _rage_.

_Fuck_, this guy could _kick._

And he had to admit, in some ways, this was much more stress relieving than meditating. And a hell of a lot more exhilarating. The blond was a _lot_ stronger than he looked and that was even an understatement. This brought his interest up tenfold.

But Zoro stubbornly concluded that he was stronger, he _had_ to be, and he needed to prove it. This skinny bastard wasn't taking him down so easy. He was going to kick him out of this cabin in a mangled heap when he was done with him. And he _would_ kick him out, too, just for the irony.

Zoro coughed slightly, still recovering his breathing pattern from that lung-crushing kick he'd received. He unclenched his fist, and with a snake-like smirk responded, "I'd call it a lucky one."

The blond nearly howled with rage and charged, "What about _this—_" a crescent kick turned roundhouse with alternating feet, which Zoro managed to dodge and block respectively. He held his opponent's long leg in the crook of his shoulder and neck, holding it in place with an iron grip. The blond made an impatient noise and raised his right leg to plough a simple sidekick into Zoro's side. Zoro was faster though, as he'd expected it.

He shifted his left elbow out in range of the attack, and without any force, he simply presented it there waiting for an impact. The long leg connected, and he was satisfied to hear the blond click his tongue, indicating that it'd hurt—which he'd expected it would—and Zoro took the offensive now. Shifting himself slightly from his crouch, he pushed the blond's captured leg up—the back of his thigh between Zoro's shoulder and neck now, still in a death grip—and shoved forwards, slamming the back of the feisty stranger into the wall opposite to the meditation room. In the process he'd put his forearm across the blond's shoulder line, close to his trachea, to block him off and lock him securely on the wall. Zoro thanked fuck that they hadn't torn through the fusuma door in the midst of this battle—yet.

Zoro held him there on the wall, leaning his weight into the blond, and the guy struggled like a fish out of water. Both were breathing heavily. Zoro smirked. "Had enough?" And really, he hadn't even made a single strike.

With a lifted chin and a smirk plastered above it, one blue eye stared down at him in defiance. "Not nearly."

With that the blond was again flexible enough to use his right leg—the only one still supporting him other than Zoro's hold—to knee it straight into Zoro's forearm, and the blond had skilfully directed his shot so that the force of it lifted Zoro's upper arm _off_, and that boney knee was now prying it away from him. Zoro had to wonder, throughout all of this, why his opponent's hands remained tucked away uselessly in his pockets. They were both straining for control—one to escape the hold and the other to keep it—but apparently the blond's plan had worked because once Zoro's forearm was far enough away from his neck, he'd smiled viciously and used his shoulder blades to practically shove himself off the wall, dropping to the floor before Zoro could catch him again.

He was a little _snake_, was what he was.

The blond used this escape to deliver a sharp, quick as lightning jab kick to the back of Zoro's knee, forcing him to lose some of his sturdy balance. Then the blond positioned himself again on his hands and used the closeness he shared with the wall behind him to his advantage. He shoved his legs up so that he was in a handstand position, and kicked off of the wall, delivering an upside-down axe kick at Zoro's head.

Zoro rolled away just in time, and had to gawk at the _hole in the wooden floor_ the blond had left in his wake. There were split planks standing up on end from the broken floor. The thin man got to his feet gracefully, alternatively tapping the fronts of his black pumas on the ground. They were both sweating and breathing heavily, but neither seemed to make a move. It was like everything just paused, and they simply stared at each other with both hatred and astonishment.

It wasn't until the blond took something out of his pocket that Zoro was on his toes; readily awaiting what was in store. The blond regarded him with a slight smirk, showing an innocent cigarette and a lighter in both hands, as if he was holding them up for the cops. One blue eye lingered on Zoro until it was out of sight, the blond now completely facing away from him and slouching over to light his cigarette. He placed the lighter in his pant pocket and seemed to be in a state of nirvana as he exhaled, smoke spilling out of his mouth like mist caught in a breeze.

Zoro stared on, a hardened expression upon his face. He was still waiting for some unexpected move, but what he could not have prepared for was the blond's words.

"Where do I sleep?"

Zoro's voice was strained with his response. "The fuck? You attack me and you expect me to let you _stay_ here?"

The blond shrugged. "I paid to stay here; I don't need your fucking permission. So, where do I sleep?"

Zoro almost whined. "Can't you get another cabin?"

"They were all booked out. Only could get in here."

The green haired swordsman pinched the bridge of his nose, "You've gotta be—_all_ of them? Goddamned tourists. I don't know. Sleep in the meditation room or something. Just stay out of my way. And don't start any more fights." Zoro pointed to the hole in the floor that the blond had caused. "I don't want to cause any more of _that._ It's called property damage, you damn idiot, and it's coming out of _your_ wallet."

"Me? _You_ moved out of the way."

"No shit. Because of _course _I would've _wanted_ to get my head cracked open by your foot," Zoro stated dully, the sarcasm oozing from his lips.

The blond smiled softly between his cigarette. Somehow it really pissed Zoro off. Actually there was no 'somehow' about it. It was that damn smirk he wore.

"Ah, so you acknowledge that I _would_ have cracked your skull open."

Zoro snorted. "Don't get so cocky. It was an exaggeration."

"But you know, you may be right," the lithe man shifted the weight on his foot to the other, taking a drag from his cigarette before holding it out casually, palm up. He exhaled slowly, taking his time. "I don't know if even I'm capable of splitting a skull as thick as yours, caveman."

It took all the meditation practice and inner balance within himself to refrain from smashing that damn blond's pretty boy face into the wall. It really, really did.

— «»»««» —

Sanji didn't know why he was here. He really didn't. It was just something he'd done on a whim, he needed some time away from Montréal, he was suffering through some bad memories lately. The panic attacks were practically engrained into him now, but lately they were severe enough to interfere with work. He'd told Zeff that he needed time off. That shitty geezer had told him to wander the Himalayas in search of a monastery and that maybe he'd 'find his inner self'. Of course the old man was being a complete asshole, as usual, but his mockery did give Sanji the idea to look online for retreats in Canada—Québec or Ontario to be more specific. He'd decided to cross the provincial border just for a change. He hadn't been to Ontario in more than a year, after all.

And he'd happened to click on the website for Ohara Falls. Seemed pretty nice. He was packed and ready to go within two days. Told the old man he was off and not to get into too much trouble without him. The man swore at him and threw a spatula just as he'd shut the door. He didn't know whether to call it love or abuse. So he settled with both.

He did feel a bit guilty. Well, _a lot_ guilty, because he'd come here with...plans. But hell, he wasn't even sure if he was serious about that. He didn't like to think about it. And it didn't matter anyway; with the moss-head around, his mind would be occupied with less morbid intentions.

But he clearly didn't expect the place to be so busy. Had he come during some Buddhist meditation holiday or something? Knowing his luck, that would be the case. But it was because of this explosion of tourists—which he'd found out from the enchanting clerk at the desk—that he was stuck with this grass headed moron in a cabin that didn't even have a kitchen. To think he'd brought food to be cooking over a woodstove! A _woodstove_! Where was his pride as a chef in that? But he wouldn't doubt his skills would prove that he could still make something incredible with it.

Currently, Sanji stared down at the rushing water just outside of their cabin, picking up a small rock and extending it over the edge, the rock enclosed in his fist. He released it and watched it fall until he couldn't see it anymore through the mist, didn't even hear it drop into the water. He stared long and hard at it before turning to sit facing the lake.

Knowing that damn marimo was hogging the meditation room—but really, he wouldn't know what to do with it anyway—Sanji sat down with his legs crossed, and just stared over the water. He could do this. If that idiot was meditating right now then he could do it too, dammit.

...Even though he'd never attempted it in his life.

He closed his eyes. Tried to think of something that calmed him—or wait, wasn't he supposed to think of nothing? Emptying your thoughts, or something... but he couldn't do that. His mind ran a mile a minute, probably more so than the average person because his mind was a fucked up place.

And honestly, how was he supposed to cook with a damn _woodstove_.

Sanji curled over and gripped his sunny locks tightly in frustration. "Fuck, what am I even doing here," he whispered to himself. He took a breather. "Okay...try again."

Again, his eyelids blanketed his sight in darkness. He could hear seagulls in the distance and the tumbling water to his left. He tried to make these sounds lull him rather than distract him. It was harder than it sounded—he just couldn't _relax_ dammit. How could that pea-brained idiot in the cabin manage it and he couldn't? Maybe you needed to be a miraculous level of dumb to excel in having no thoughts. He laughed at the thought.

Fighting with the muscular moron felt good, he had to admit. The guy annoyed him to hell but he was a good challenge in a fight. Perhaps that could be more stress-relieving than this meditation crap. But he knew he couldn't just get rid of stress physically. He had to do it mentally too. And the guy appeared to know how to do both. It bugged Sanji to no end. How was he so good?

Suddenly a sharp breeze lofted by, seeming to brush past his shoulder with a lustful hiss. Sanji opened his eyes and sat up quickly. This was doing him no good. He slouched as he lit up—or tried to, rather, the lighter didn't seem to be doing its job properly—and breathed out shakily. He inhaled more calmly this time and attempted to light the cigarette dangling out of his mouth again. He stood there for another ten minutes, the smoke from his cigarette wafting over the edge. He stared over the lake which was beginning to sparkle orange from the sunset just over the horizon, half covered by masses of trees and cliffs from the other islands decorating the lake. He was shocked that it was seven thirty already. He hadn't spoken a word to the green-headed stranger in the cabin since their fight this morning. He hadn't eaten anything, either—didn't want to step near that woodstove. Somehow he wasn't hungry anyway.

His long fingers twisting around the filter of his cigarette, he stared back at the cabin, seeing the vague image of black clothes and green hair, sitting perfectly still and calm through the glass. Sanji admittedly felt envious. That guy had been sitting there for five hours. All Sanji had managed to do when he'd arrived was take plenty of walks and pace around the cabin. How could he sit there for _five hours_?

However, curiosity finally got the better of him as he flung the burnt out cigarette over the edge and strolled towards the cabin grouchily. He couldn't believe he was going to do this.

Sanji walked around the cabin to the front door, which faced away from the lake, and entered quietly. He had left his things in the bathroom for now, so he headed there. Changing into a comfortable pair of grey sweats and a loose black t-shirt, he stalked up to the bamboo-decorated fusuma and opened it gently, just a crack. He peeked inside to see the guy sitting still there like stone. He slid the door open fully and stepped inside. The green-haired man still made no signs of noticing him. Perhaps this was a good thing. Sanji could copy his technique without having to say a word.

He stepped in near silence; his bare feet on the wooden floor made little sound. He dragged one of the cushions directly across from the meditating stranger and plopped down, not caring about making noise anymore. And yet somehow the man didn't even raise a finger.

_This guy's a pro_, Sanji confirmed.

In his sitting position Sanji studied the tanned man with intrigue, shifting his head from one angle to the next. He mirrored the bastard's sitting position, lifting his feet so that they both weren't touching the ground. The blond observed him about a minute longer, trying to figure out his secret, before putting it to the test. He shut his eyes and focussed on eliminating this world to enter his own.

Sanji sat there for a full five minutes before letting out an aggravated growl and rubbing his hands over his brows and hairline viciously. This was _impossible_. But what made it worse was that for the stone figure across from, it _wasn't_ impossible. It was _entirely_ possible. That really irked him. He felt innate competitiveness with this bastard who he didn't even know.

He didn't realize he was staring blankly, his mind elsewhere, when said bastard's lips moved to speak. The rest of him remained frozen.

"What are you doing?"

Sanji was surprised. Dammit. The idiot knew he was there the whole time. Now _he_ felt like the idiot. But he covered it up, or tried to. "Meditating, fuckhead."

The green-haired bastard's voice could only be described as monotonous and straight-edged. "Your technique's shit."

Sanji didn't know what to say to that, which was half of what made him so angry. The other half could be attributed to the comment itself. "Asshole. As if I do this shit daily."

"Meditation isn't 'shit'. Yours is..."

Before Sanji could protest to that he was stopped by the guy's piercing glare. Sanji hadn't even realized when he'd opened his eyes.

"...but meditation isn't," the man finished.

Sanji found his voice, though he somehow couldn't control it or what he was saying, "Fuck you. Meditation _is_ shit, does fucking nothing. You sit here for five hours wasting away on your ass—the fuck do you get from that, huh?"

"Lots," the bastard spoke succinctly. "I have to wonder what the hell you're here for if you can't appreciate that."

"I..." For some reason, that struck a nerve with Sanji. But not in the way that he'd have liked. It didn't make him want to kick the bastard's face in; instead it made him feel rather vulnerable. _What he was here for._ He'd been repeating that thought in his mind this entire time. What he was here for. He might've come here to do something drastic. He might've come just to get away from his life for one goddamn weekend.

But he didn't know why the fuck he was here. Instinct and emotion had dragged him here. Anger and desperation had convinced him to bring what he needed.

This vulnerability in Sanji showed in the form of anger and exasperation. "Fuck this, and fuck you," he shot, adding more quietly, "I'm out of here."

This whole thing was a waste of time anyway. Sanji stalked out of the room and felt a little more disgruntled when all he saw of the bastard's response was a shrug, resuming to his meditation. He slammed the fusuma door shut behind him, striding into the bathroom impatiently and shutting the door. He stood leaning his head and body against it for a moment, took a couple breaths, then proceeded to change out of his sweats and into jeans. He pulled his socks up rather impetuously, nearly stumbling into the bathtub in the process. He picked up his things, opened the door, and hastily turned to the front exit.

Ah, shit. His chest felt tight, his head light, his fingers tingly, his limbs shaky, his lungs smothered. He hoped he could ward this one off. If not, he had the pills to take care of it.

He was getting out of here. He would just drive, it didn't matter where. That bastard could go fuck himself.

His bags landed on the ground loudly, banging into walls in the enclosed space. He leaned down and shoved his pumas on, tying them roughly before standing. He panted all the while and tried to clear his vision. Recognizing he was now losing the war escalating in his own body, he frantically searched around in his bag for his pills. He popped a tablet and the simple knowledge that it was deployed into his system did wonders calming him in and of itself.

As he took a couple minutes to calm, he stood there, looking at the door, at his exit, his escape. He didn't hesitate any longer and picked up his bags, but he had to wonder why his hand froze on the doorknob. He stood there staring at it, emotionless, before closing his eyes briefly and opening the door with a soft creak. He left.

He left and didn't turn back.

— «»»««» —

Zoro was cursing himself the entire time as he walked to the front door moments after he'd heard it shut. Something about that blond was just aching for help, in some way, and he wasn't the type who would tackle personal stuff like that, but he knew from experience that meditation could help and that guy didn't know how to meditate worth shit. If there was anything his master had taught him, it was that meditation was for anyone and _everyone_. Even someone like that whiny blond that'd managed to stumble into his cabin. Everyone deserved a chance for enlightenment, and that morale was not going to be neglected by any means.

No matter how much that prissy blond plucked at his nerves like a shabbily tuned guitar.

He turned the knob and the door swung open, a finely timed gust almost knocking it into him. He saw the dark clouds forming in the sky, even with the sun almost down completely. It was going to rain tonight.

He spotted the blond walking downhill along the path, slightly off balance because of the wind and his overly packed bags. Zoro grunted impatiently at his decision and jogged to catch up with him. Just as the blond had reached a set of stone stairs, Zoro called out to him from behind. "Hey!"

The blond turned around, wearing a distorted but surprised expression.

"You wanna learn?" Zoro asked; all confidence. Even if he didn't feel so confident in what he was doing.

The lanky man appeared to be dumbfounded. "Huh?"

"Meditation," Zoro clarified bluntly. "You wanna learn it or not, dipshit?"

The blond raised a curled eyebrow. "And you're willing to teach me?" he said sceptically.

Zoro didn't say anything to that. He just let his silence speak for him.

The two seemed to stare at each other until the lanky blond sighed and averted his eyes to one of the many trees surrounding them. He appeared to be watching it rustle in the wind, faded leaves being torn from their already weakened holds on the branches. Perhaps he was figuring, with the upcoming rain, it would do him good just to stay the night, at least.

But the blond smiled, genuinely. "Are your meditation techniques going to teach me how to photosynthesize properly in that greenhouse of a room, leaf-head?"

Zoro almost twitched. Almost. Instead he wore a cool smirk. "How about I use your head for target practice instead, dartbrow?"

The blond's lithe form made its way back up the hill, a smooth chuckle escaping his lips and a curled brow raised in warning.

— «»»««» —

"First of all, relax," Zoro instructed as he positioned the blond's arms over his crossed legs. He ignored the way the blond flinched as he did this. The rain was now pattering down on the window, and the darkness had made it hard to see but Zoro had lit several candles offered in the room to create a relaxing atmosphere. Zoro scratched the back of his head. "Okay, now that you're in a proper position, I guess I should take you through some breathing exercises."

The blond did seem all but comfortable and going through breathing practices was one of the first things Zoro had learned, so he figured it was a good place to start.

"Breathing?" the blond made a dismissive sound that was close to a snort, but not fully, "Well that's easy."

Zoro smirked all knowingly. "Not entirely. Close your eyes."

The blond did as he was told, surprisingly. But he seemed even more uncomfortable now. His tense shoulders and neck proved that.

"Relax."

"I _am_," came the quick, annoyed retort.

"You're not. You're completely tense all over. Just chill."

The blond made a small, undignified grunt and Zoro watched closely as his narrow shoulders sagged slowly and his furrowed brow sank back to normal. Zoro waited patiently until he felt the blond was loosened up enough.

But the damn idiot was so impatient. "What now?"

"I'm getting there. Stop asking questions, just listen and focus," Zoro commanded. The blond basically undid all the relaxation he'd accomplished when Zoro spotted his mouth twitch—the guy was just itching to say something—and his brow knitted up once again. But he at last cooperated when he calmed and soothed his body for the second time. He was ready now. Zoro spoke in an uncharacteristically soft voice for this, "I want to you try and block out everything, just listen to your natural breathing. Slow, in and out. Inhale, exhale."

Zoro observed the blond's breathing. He was doing alright, but something was still off. "Part your lips a little bit, exhale out of them. Breathe in through your nose." The blond did. Zoro had to admit, it was strange seeing his face—usually so contorted with anger—now so quiet and serene, despite the fact that he was still oozing an awkward vibe so noticeably.

A stray branch from one of the many trees surrounding the cabin managed to find its way to the window, scratching and tapping at the glass surface from the wind. Zoro didn't pay any heed to it, but the blond immediately opened his eyes, not expecting the sound. His blue eye froze in the direction of the disturbance, and then darted to Zoro's deep brown stare.

"You got distracted," Zoro stated bluntly.

The blond stared at him dully. "No shit."

"You get distracted too easily."

The blond's mouth curved downwards into a scowl. "Fuck off."

Zoro nearly laughed, incredulous of how defensive this guy was. "Do you want my help or not?"

One cold blue eye remained trained on him but he held the gaze, and eventually the blond let up. "Fine," he mumbled. "But I need to take a break and make some food. Want any?"

"I usually fast when I come up here."

"Fast?" That seemed to catch the blond's interest. "Why?"

Zoro shrugged. "It's part of the training."

The blond looked at Zoro with a peculiar expression as he began to sit up, hand on his thigh. "Sounds unhealthy."

Zoro shrugged casually. "It can find its uses."

From that the blond paused, a blue eye shifting to the ground in thought, before he shook his head and turned to exit the room. "So that's a no?"

"That's a yes," Zoro answered the opposite, just to piss the guy off. As if that somehow became more important to him than routine.

When Sanji groaned at him, he deemed his decision well worth it.

— «»»««» —

Sanji knew that if there was one thing this woodstove was good for, it was slow, consistent heat. So it was ideal for cooking up a soothing, nutritious soup. Only problem was he needed water—which came from a well at the bottom of the hill. He had to walk out there in the windy, hammering rain. With all those droplets coming down so fast he might as well have just lifted the pot over his head to collect it.

He came back panting and drenched, but he had the water. The moss head had remained by the woodstove, keeping up to the task that Sanji had given him—to get that fire started and keep it going. The guy wasn't a complete moron, apparently, as he'd kept to that task efficiently.

Sanji placed the metal pot down with a grunt. The water inside of it swashed around and connected to the sides, nearly spilling over onto the floor. He wiped his forehead and straightened out his bang, subsequently shaking out his arms to get rid of some of the moisture. He incidentally sprinkled the bastard in front of the stove.

"Watch it, damn idiot," the algae head mumbled.

"Don't complain. I was watering you."

The bastard turned his head slightly. Sanji swore he'd heard his neck crack. "What'd you say?"

Sanji smirked. "I was watering you so the grass on your head could sprout a flower."

There was a thump as the bastard got to his feet. "Say that again and you're done for!"

"Sorry. I meant a weed."

The green headed bastard seemed to be trying to contain himself with clenched teeth and balling fists. "I would so love to kill you right now but one, I'd get in deep shit for that, and two, you still need to fix that hole in the floor, not make more."

"Hey, I thought I told you. _You_ moved out of the way," Sanji said with mirth.

The muscular guy raised a finger to protest, but then decided it wasn't worth it and shook his head, walking over to the sidelines to apparently watch as Sanji got to business. Sanji didn't know how to feel about this. Many people had watched him cook but this was different somehow. They were so... isolated.

He placed the pot on the metal platform of the woodstove and opened it up to add more wood. His stomach growled in realization that this meal would take about two hours to complete. Sanji walked over to grab two of his bags—one had the ingredients needed (yes he'd brought raw ingredients; he _was_ a chef) and the other smaller bag that had all the utensils he would need. The pot was luckily complementary in the cabin. As Sanji placed all of his materials (all vegetables, he was making a vegetable soup) out on a large wooden cutting board, he recognized that he should probably start some sort of civil conversation with the caveman resting in the corner.

"So where're you from?" he asked. He would've asked for a name but somehow that seemed a little too personal. He wasn't sure what this man was comfortable with, however surely he would be friendly enough to tell him where he came from.

Sanji didn't see it directly, but the silhouetted shadow of the man behind him reflected on the wall in front, and he saw the movement of his head perk up. "Toronto. You?"

Sanji debated on telling him he was born and raised in France, but decided against it. He looked back to him over his shoulder, pausing in his task of peeling potatoes, "Montréal."

The guy pursed his lips and before he responded Sanji turned back to his work. "Long drives for both of us, huh."

"Yeah, I enjoy it though," Sanji replied softly. "Sometimes you just need to make a trip like that alone."

Apparently this had spoken to the guy, because he let out a breathy, "Yeah."

They remained silent after that, their only company being flickering shadows from the fire and droplets plastered on the walls reflected from the window. The pattering rain on glass and powerful winds that crushed branches together outside were the only noises that inflicted their silence, as well as the fast-paced peeling and chopping sounds that Sanji created with his preparations.

The water was now boiling, so Sanji picked up the cutting board, lifted the pot lid and slid all the vegetables in. He grabbed his wooden spoon and stirred them into the water a bit, before setting the spoon down on a carefully placed towel. He sighed and scratched his head lightly to distract himself as his stomach growled again. Then his mind wandered to what he knew was hidden in his bag and he frowned.

He glanced back tentatively at his companion of sorts, and softened when he saw that the guy had fallen asleep. His head was slouched over, onto his chest, and his arms crossed laxly on his abdomen. He looked to be in one of the most peaceful, deepest sleeps Sanji had ever seen.

Somehow he got the feeling that this tranquility was a rarity in the man's life.

— «»»««» —

Dinner was late into the evening, but when it was ready Sanji had to wake the bastard. He debated on kicking him awake, but how could he do that when the guy wore such a baby face? So he resolved to shaking his shoulder gently with his foot. "Hey. Dinner."

The guy shifted and peeled a bleary eye open, then breathed out sleepily. He got off of the wall and yawned rather obnoxiously.

"Glad to see you heard me, shithead," Sanji commented, bending down to hand him a bowl. "There's lots more in the pot if you want seconds. And wine, if you want any."

Sanji hadn't expected to be sharing this very special wine with a stranger this weekend, this much was certain. He'd stolen one of the Baratie's most vintage bottles as a final luxury. One of the few things he treasured in life was a good glass of wine. The shitty old man was going to absolutely skewer him when he got back, a return of which was looking more and more likely as the weekend dragged on.

The man looked at the plastic cup half full of red wine in Sanji's hand before accepting the bowl of soup. He seemed to welcome the warm steam on his face that ascended from it. He took a hesitant sip and his eyes widened ever so slightly. Even if it was subtle, Sanji saw the surprise etched on his face and it made him smile uncontrollably.

"Good, huh?"

The guy simply shrugged and said, "I've had better."

Sanji's smile transformed into a smirk. Fucker was lying and he knew it. "You know it's good, you stubborn shit."

He didn't respond, but Sanji took his excited slurps as a: 'This is fucking delicious.'

— «»»««» —

That night, Sanji was awoken in the meditation room not because of the constant rain hammering against the wall of glass, but because he couldn't breathe. Well, it felt like that anyway. A hand on his chest, he clutched his shirt and tried to take in deep breaths, which always felt impossible. Should know that by now...

He curled over his knees, waiting and urging his mind to tell his body that everything was okay, that his heart might've been pounding out of his chest and he felt scared out of his mind but there was nothing here that could hurt him. He clenched his chattering teeth and tried his best to stay still, willing his vicious trembling away. Sometimes he needed to be still. Other times he needed to walk around. This wasn't one of the latter times—his stomach maybe have been sending signals of nausea that he knew firsthand were false, but that didn't mean he was about to start walking around any time soon.

He realized the pills were in his bag on the other side of the room, but Sanji had dealt with these attacks in the past so much, sometimes he tried not to be too dependent on drugs. Mind over matter was a good way to ward these things off naturally, so long as he was in the right situation to do so. Right now it was night and he was alone in this room, so it seemed a perfect opportunity.

It was a hard thing to put into practice. Sanji liked to consider himself a rational person, but these attacks...they really fucked up his brain. He never could quite think straight during, but it did depend on severity and intensity.

It took around fifteen minutes for the majority of his fear to subside, though it felt like longer. After that, falling asleep would be a task. It always was when one of these damn attacks woke him up at night—they were the worst for that and tended to be the scariest because there was no way to prepare. It was like diving into a body of water only to discover upon impact that you'd just jumped headfirst into a pool of blood. Too damn late.

Not too much later, he still lay awake before hearing a yell. He sat up, the blankets covering his lower half. Throwing them aside and shivering at the wall of cold air that hit him, he peeked out of the fusuma door. He was shocked to see none other than the green-haired man rush out of his small bedroom and into the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack—and he was sure that was accidental. It creaked open and Sanji caught sight of him splashing his face vigorously with water, over and over again.

The man grasped his green locks with a shaky grip of steel and curled over the sink as if he was in agony. His heavy breathing filled Sanji's ears, so much so that he'd forgotten the rain pounding against the window.

When he was sure the guy was about to leave, Sanji slid the door shut and scrambled back to his mattress on the floor. He pulled the sheets over himself and stared at the ceiling—or rather, what he could see of it in the darkness.

He had even more difficulty falling asleep after that.

— «»»««» —

Zoro was leaving that morning. He'd received a call from work early and had to get back to Toronto as soon as possible. Somebody had a death in the family and his employers had nowhere else to turn. It was sad, really. He was only here for a day, and would have to wait a month to come back. And he hadn't even the chance to practice with his swords.

It was still raining that morning, ever constant since it poured last evening. Zoro got all his things together and freshened himself up for the long drive home. He wasn't planning to say goodbye to the blond stranger that had accompanied him and cooked for him yesterday, but somehow wasn't too surprised to hear the fusuma door open.

And there he stood, in a loose black t-shirt and blue plaid pyjama pants with tousled blond locks in all sorts of directions. "Leaving?" he asked drowsily, clearing his throat after speaking.

"Yeah," was all Zoro responded. What did this asshole want from him? He had a life back in Toronto—a stupid deadbeat job that needed his attention. What had he expected?

"Do you come here every weekend?" the blond blurted out.

Zoro looked at him strangely. "Every month," he corrected.

"So then," said the blond, leaning on the door frame. "In a month you'll... be here?"

"Yeah."

The blond didn't say anything after that. He seemed to be having a difficult time at this.

Zoro decided to make it easy for him. "Same cabin, middle of next month. I'd say the... 16th? Book it. You need a lot of practice."

Zoro didn't wait to see the look of satisfaction on the blond's face as he turned for the door, but before he left he realized something. He paused with his duffel bag resting over his shoulder and on his back, curving his head to the left slightly.

"I'm Zoro, by the way."

"Sanji," came the reply.

The door closed softly and the two were soon forced to rejoin life in the city.

— «»»««» —


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: ** Quick note, I just wanted to point out something. I can't believe in all these years I never indicated this before but thankfully an inquisitive reader made me realize I'd left out this detail. Ohara Falls is on Lake Clear in Ontario. I made up the waterfall of course, but looked up the lake's appearance and it looks like it's got some nice rocky bluffs (typical of the Canadian Shield), so I figured it wasn't implausible for a small waterfall to be there. It's about a four hour drive for them both from their respective cities. I edited it into the first chapter now. :)

— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

**Chapter Three****:**

"_Saddha:_

Conviction, faith."

— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

His ears were filled with heaving breathing, felt the soft sand between his toes. It made footwork especially difficult, but he pulled through. He couldn't let her win again. Not with the promise of what he had to gain.

_Clank, clank, clank._

Strike after strike, he gave her everything he had and yet she always came back with more. A whole lot more. He struggled to keep up, but he was determined. She wouldn't win this time. She made a slip in the sand—ever so slightly—and he took his chance. How could she have made such a mistake? Her technique was perfect. Always.

She proved that to be true when used that mistake to her advantage, sliding in between Zoro's wide stance, and shoving the hilt of her katana straight into his back. He growled, then chuckled, and turned around quickly so as not to be on the receiving end of another attack. Zoro took the offensive once more—it had to be that way when duelling with her. Either you took charge or you took hits. She was brilliant with a sword.

Maybe that's why he'd fallen in love with her. That and everything else about her.

From this one thought, this one wish—this one promise—Zoro shoved into her fiercely, managing to get her pinned. His two blades were instantaneously embedded in the sand on both sides of her head, and he himself was shocked, but maintained a serious expression and panted with exertion.

"This is my..." he closed his eyes and grinned happily. "First win."

"Unbelievable. You've finally done it, Zoro," she said with a proud smile. "Do I really have to do this?" she asked exasperatedly.

Zoro inched towards her face, his lips hovering over hers. He could practically feel their softness without even connecting them to his own. "I'm not _that_ awful, am I?"

He felt her breathe out on his face as she smiled. _"_Not really, no."

He dipped his head in, smooth as a wave, and kissed her softly, slowly, with all the love he had inside himself to give. He loved her so much it ached, but all these lingering feelings, desires, _needs_ that he'd kept inside himself for years, were finally given to him. Relinquished. He'd earned it through defeating her. It was the first promise they'd made to each other.

She wrapped her arm around his neck, and kissed him back, so gently—tumbled on top of each other in the warm sand of an isolated beach in Okinawa, their gentle pecks turned a lot more deep and hungry.

_Kuina...come back. Please. Please. Please..._

He had loved her with everything he had.

That night, Zoro didn't wake up nauseous. Or angry. Or fatigued. He woke up with endless streams down his face, ever constant. He didn't swear; he didn't make much noise at all. Near silent whimpers echoed in his empty, dark bedroom. He curled up in his sheets and shook, the entirety of his body wracked with the stress of grievance.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried this hard from one of his memories of her.

— «»»««» —

Luffy had demanded they all get together for dinner that evening.

They didn't go anywhere fancy, just a franchised restaurant that served decent food at decent prices. It'd been a while since they all got together like this. In the beginning, hanging out with the people Ace and Luffy had introduced him to had been awkward. He'd never been much of a crowd pleaser. But they were all warm-hearted people who treated him like family. It really was touching, even to someone as stand-offish as Zoro, and he valued moments like this.

"Zoro! What is up, mi amigo," Ace said, slapping his back in the process with a weird smirk.

Zoro looked at him in amusement. "You high?"

Ace simply shrugged. "I'll let you decide."

Zoro laughed, then asked, "What made Luffy call everyone together?"

Ace pulled one of his trademark grins. "Eh, you know Luffy. Cause without reason."

"Ah."

"Zoro!"

The man in question zipped his head to the side when he heard Luffy's exclamation right in his ear. "What?" he responded, innocently annoyed.

"Can I have the rest of that?" he enquired bluntly. There was a loud thump and then a groan, and everyone sitting at the table flinched.

"Oww, Nami, what was that for?" Luffy whined, rubbing his tender head that—knowing the hidden power behind Nami's fists—could actually be bleeding.

"For being a pig! Sit down and eat your own food!" the fiery red-head said, dragging the nineteen year old by the back of his collar to his spot beside her.

"But I've finished mine! That's why I wanted Zoro's!" Luffy protested.

"Honestly, it's like taking care of a kid!" Nami blathered on, scolding Luffy further who just picked at his empty plate drearily.

Zoro had to laugh at Luffy, even though this was nothing new. He hadn't seen so many of them together like this in more than a month and it was really quite entertaining. Sitting at the table currently was Ace, Luffy, Nami and Usopp. Franky, Brook, Chopper and Robin couldn't make it, however, but they were always very busy people. Franky with his mechanics business and Robin who owned many spas across the province. Actually, the very retreat Zoro went to was owned by Robin, even though it wasn't a spa. But it was probably relatively obvious since her spas were called _Ohara Spas and Beauty. _Robin herself was a well-trained masseuse, though she really was more into the business of it these days.

Nami happened to work with Robin at one of her spas in Toronto, a befitting job for her that she'd gained through connections, of course. It paid well and helped her get through her tuition fees. She was a finance student.

Brook was always travelling about, getting gigs for his music all over the world. It was hard to say he even lived in Toronto. But when he came back he was always a joy, giving everyone gifts and souvenirs from all the places he'd visited during his time abroad.

Tony Chopper—or Chopper as they simply referred to him—couldn't make it today, understandably. He was an undergraduate in medical school; a prodigy seventeen year old kid who was flying through his courses with a lot of hard work but also with natural ease and comprehension. Today he was studying for some intimidating mid-terms and had promised to hang with everyone some other time. Of course, Zoro sympathized with the baby of their group, and had told him it was no problem at all. He always did have a soft spot for the kid.

Usopp was in his first year, studying computer sciences as his major, but he also filled all of his electives with art classes at his university in his attempt for an art minor. He worked at Franky's shop part-time, as he also had a real knack for mechanics when he tinkered around.

Luffy, who'd graduated from the same high school with Usopp a couple years ago, was still out of school. Many of them pushed him to think about his future, but Luffy was very confident that he would make it on his own somehow. It was hard to believe him when he lived off of Ace's money, mostly. Sometimes he took the odd part-time job mopping up mall floors or washing dishes, but he got fired so frequently for basically being about as useful as a sack of potatoes. Actually, worse than that—potatoes kept to themselves and didn't tend to shatter plates or play mops like an electric guitar.

Still, Luffy always did manage to attract good fortune in the most arbitrary of ways. Not even a full year had passed since he'd found a missing dog and returned it to the owners who happened to be very wealthy, who also happened to pay him an extremely generous reward. And then there was the time he chatted up the right person while on the subway and landed an acting gig in a commercial. Ever since then, he'd been particularly taken to acting, stage acting specifically. It shouldn't have come to any of them as a surprise, considering he'd been in almost all the high school plays. Somebody as eccentric and spontaneous as Luffy practically had 'actor' stamped uppercase on his forehead in bright red ink.

"Luffy! Don't take my food, idiot!"

Usopp's cries and struggles beside him shook Zoro out of his thoughts. He stared at them with a dumb expression on his face as he watched Luffy and Usopp's antics, and subsequently Nami breaking them up with her violence once again. He'd fallen into a daze as he set his eyes on them and it took Nami's inquisitive glare to make him snap out of it again.

Damn, he was tired. Work today had been hard and he'd barely gotten a wink of sleep last night.

After dinner, plans were made to hang out at Luffy's place. There was talk about maybe going to a club or a bar, but everyone decided that they weren't really in the mood. Especially Zoro, who wasn't the type that stayed out too long with friends, really valuing his time alone just as much. He did love the friends he'd made here, but he was fatigued and just wanted to relax for the rest of the night. Everyone accepted that with understanding—which was one of the traits he loved best about them—and bid their final goodbyes for the night before leaving.

Nami stopped him on their way out, however. Here came a lecture. When it wasn't Robin or Ace or Chopper worrying about his health, Nami usually stepped up to the plate. Fifth in line would usually be Usopp. And if things were really serious, Luffy, but always in that unorthodox 'did-I-really-just-get-a-lecture-from-Luffy' kind of way.

"You look tired," she stated matter-of-factly.

Zoro aimed to be casual. His usual deadpan tone didn't make it much of a task. "Work was rough today." He massaged his shoulder to drive the point home.

"Had a rough sleep, too?" she asked, heading into interrogation territory.

"Actually, I slept like a baby last night." Maybe he shouldn't have said it with such a cheeky skip in his tone.

"As in whining and crying all night, keeping up the neighbours?"

Nami always did have a knack for twisting words.

Zoro just couldn't muster up energy to care, so he agreed sardonically with her. "Yeah,_ that_ kind."

She frowned. "Ace is worried about you too, you know. It's just not healthy, Zoro."

"Since when is it your business?" he snapped.

"Hmm, let's see, since you became an important part of my life?" said Nami, crossing her arms and looking away. "Of all of ours, I mean."

Zoro's eyes widened. Had she really just said that? How uncharacteristic of her.

To his bemusement, she did look flustered as she finally turned her eyes to him again. "And besides," she went on, "if you get sick and start missing work, you won't be able to pay me back that money I loaned you. And let me tell you, Zoro, it's collecting more and more interest by the day."

He had to smirk at her recovery. She really was so obvious. The sad thing was, he knew she was doing more than simply recovering from her embarrassment. She was hitting two birds with one stone.

"Don't worry, witch, you'll get your money. Didn't I make a payment last month?"

"Peh. _Barely._ You were late. Can't you do anything without me having to remind you 24/7?"

"Can't I do anything without you breathing down my neck _'24/7'!?"_ he said bitterly with a raised tone.

"You not sleeping – it's not right, Zoro."

"Who said I wasn't sleeping?"

"Ace."

Zoro practically snarled. "Fucking Ace."

"Before you start warming up for a fight, he told Luffy. And you know Luffy blurts out almost anything without thinking," she defended. Then she sighed, shaking her head. "It's just not right."

"Doesn't matter. It's how it is," was Zoro's terse reply.

"Luffy said you went through a hard time before you came here. He didn't tell me more than that but I can tell it must've been pretty traumatic for you to be like this..."

Oh, geez. Here we go.

Zoro was staring, unmoving, straight ahead, gazing longingly at his parked Jeep. He was getting pissed and he didn't want to explode on Nami more than he already had but this was getting pretty goddamn ridiculous. He was having a hard time keeping his anger locked up while she talked and rattled the cage.

She went on. "You keep to yourself most of the time, you overwork yourself..."

He let loose a short, acrid laugh. "_Oh_, so now me making money is an inconvenience to you? Make up your goddamn mind!"

It was then that her own anger started to flare. "God, Zoro, when will you get it? It's been two years! I don't know what happened to you but what I do know now is that you are not. healthy! Healthy people don't shut themselves off, they don't lie awake at night, they don't turn down every woman who shows interest, they don't—"

"No, when will _you _get it, Nami!?" Zoro cut her off as soon as she'd exasperated herself and menacingly stepped into her personal space. "When will you get how redundant you're being? When will you get that you don't. know. _anything!"_

Nami, always brave when she needed to be, didn't let Zoro intimidate her and crossed into his space to demonstrate, chin up high. "Maybe I don't know everything about you and yeah, maybe I overstep my boundaries trying to help you, but you know why? It's because you're not doing _anything_ to make it better on yourself. And I can't _stand_ that kind of self-inflicted shit, Zoro. Why struggle by yourself when you've got so many people here for you now, worried, ready to do what it takes, to go the extra mile to make you happy? I get the feeling of wanting to do things on your own, _trust me, _I do, but locking yourself up in the past isn't the answer. It's just fucking unhealthy."

Zoro said nothing. And he wouldn't because he knew that if he parted his lips right then and there he wouldn't be able to control his voice, or his words, or even his actions. He knew that he'd regret it. Zoro stayed completely silent. He knew what she was saying held meaning, he knew somewhere in the back of his mind that this was true, but he would not have it. She simply didn't have the right when she knew so little. With clenched teeth, he gave her one final glare before turning on his heel and escaping to his Jeep.

She didn't make a peep behind him, but he could feel her watch him go.

By the time he got home, the joints in his fingers were aching from clenching the wheel far too tight far too long.

— «»»««» —

Tonight was exceptionally busy. A typical Saturday at the Baratie restaurant in Montréal. Sanji had to split himself in two for tonight, both a sous-chef and a waiter. He wasn't so unused to this, but tonight was just _fucking_ busy. He scrambled to bring a rather charming couple their food, and Sanji was ever enchanting despite the fast pace that he was forced to work at.

"Bon appétit, et appelez-moi si vous avez besoin de quelque chose," he said gracefully, before quickly making his way back to the kitchen. "Where's that sole? It's been a half hour already," he semi-asked, semi-demanded to one of the cooks, who was currently wiping his brow in the heat of the kitchen.

One cook passed the dish in question to the cook Sanji was in front of, and Sanji nodded to him in quiet thanks, making his way out of the kitchen to serve it to the kind brunette who had been waiting. Far too long in his opinion. A lady should never have to wait that long for her meal.

Finally though, after the dinner hours concluded things began to slow in that period of time before drinking hours began. The Baratie was not only a restaurant, but also a popular drinking spot for people who just wanted a calm night, a comfortable place to stay and quality wines and spirits. It was a place to come to with a couple close friends after nine. Sanji didn't typically work any night shifts, though. He didn't get to cook, after all. And drinking usually wasn't his thing, other than a glass of some of the more illustrious wines.

Sanji stepped up the stairs slowly, the joints in his feet seeming to whine in protest at the added stress. He was exhausted. As soon as he made it to his room he wanted to collapse, but something prevented him from doing so. He picked his cell out of his pocket, along with a cigarette and lighter, and checked the date. October 9th. Next weekend was the one. Sanji put the phone on his bed and lit up.

He still hadn't told the old man that he was taking more time off. The head chef wouldn't like it. But fuck if he didn't. He'd felt something there to take his mind off of things, he'd finally found some measure of peace. And the meditation—there was something to gain there. He'd felt a little more free that weekend, that much was certain.

But the main reason he wanted to go back was because, on more than one occasion, Sanji had tried meditating here, in his own room atop the Baratie, with absolutely no success. He'd had some success back at Ohara Falls, and he didn't know what to think of it. Was it the calm atmosphere? Or perhaps the marimo's teaching skills? He didn't know for sure, but what he did know was that he needed to go back there.

Because what Sanji had felt was a little slice of freedom from the chains of his past.

The lithe man finished his cigarette and snuffed it in his overused and overfilled ashtray. He headed for the door almost immediately and into Zeff's office, where the older man would surely be. As Sanji entered he knocked with his index finger knuckle, palm away from the wood. The old man looked at him from the newspaper he was reading. Sanji closed the door behind him quietly.

Zeff gave him his full attention. "What is it this time, eggplant?"

Sanji inhaled sharply. "I'm going back there next weekend."

Zeff raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh? You seem pretty set on that. You sure I'll let you go?"

Sanji smirked and shifted his weight to the opposite foot. He knew the old man was just trying to get under his skin anyway. "Yes, because you know I need to, shitty old man."

The man leaned back in his seat, stroking his beard and sighing simultaneously. "If it helps you, then go."

Sanji couldn't help but smile softly, turning to leave when he was called back.

"Sanji," Zeff said. "Sit down a minute."

Sanji complied, taking a seat across from the only man he could ever consider a father. Zeff placed the newspaper down, putting his feet on top of it. Or one foot, rather. The right one was a prosthetic.

"I got a call today from the national police in France," he said. Sanji looked at him, emotionless. "He's apparently trying to get parole."

Sanji's eyes widened. "What?"

Zeff continued, "Apparently he's been very well behaved in prison, and of course you know he's a reputable man with reputable friends."

"They can't do that," the blond denied, shaking his head. "How could they let a criminal like that go free?"

"The most they'll give him is parole for now."

"You know he won't abide to that! He'll be out of the country as soon as they open the bars," Sanji detested. "Don't they understand that?"

"Apparently he's put on quite an act, because it's looking good for him. Within a year or two he may be out," Zeff explained. "They assured me that they would do everything to make sure that doesn't happen, but you should know by now it's not like this can go on for a life sentence. There's no hard evidence against him to warrant a sentence like that."

Sanji stared at the paperwork on Zeff's desk.

"Sanji."

He didn't meet the old man in the eye.

"You've told me that you witnessed far more than that – things so horrible that you refuse to tell even me about it. If you won't tell me, the police need to hear this. _Somebody_ does. You can't keep crucial information to yourself, not with so much at stake—"

There was a loud screech as Sanji stood, the legs on his chair dragging backwards harshly against the ceramic floor. He balled his hands up and stalked out of the older man's presence without a second thought.

— «»»««» —

The day had come. Sanji stepped out of his blue Mazda with a shiver of excitement. For what he didn't exactly know, but it felt so damn right to be here. He breathed in the scent of fresh, country air as he emptied the backseat of his car of his bags. He packed light this time—just two smaller bags than before—one of them with three meals worth of precooked food to save time (it just needed to be heated) and the utensils he'd need, and the other smaller bag consisted of another pair of clothes and sweats. He didn't bring regular pyjamas this time since he recalled his previous night in the meditation room—a wall pretty well made of glass did not make a good insulator. He would sleep in his sweats this time.

Especially considering the fact that the air was significantly cooler since his time here in September. Now it was October and he was currently wearing a light jacket—solid chocolate brown. On his slender legs were well-fitted jeans, and at his feet his regular black pumas that he wore when he wasn't working. His golden hair was slightly tousled from the long car ride—he had a habit of fiddling with it while driving, also when slightly nervous.

He wasn't nervous about the whole thing, really. But over the past month, away from this place, it hit Sanji just how strange it was that he had made a sort of informal _appointment_ with a man who he'd barely met. A man whom he only knew by name and city. A man named Zoro from Toronto who was going to teach him how to properly meditate.

What the fuck.

And yet, back in Montréal he'd still made the call to Ohara Falls, speaking with an exquisitely delicate-voiced woman about his next stay here on the 16th. He still, in this moment, found himself carrying through with it, walking towards the steps with no falter in his pace. No pause.

He spoke with a different clerk than last time, a lovely brunette with dashing green eyes which made him swoon, but she had inevitably told him she did in fact have a husband when he began kissing her hand courteously. He reluctantly backed off after that, accepting the key with many thanks and making his way up the forested hill, on a cobblestone pathway. He loved seeing nature so intensely.

Montréal was a well kempt city for a city, but it was still, nonetheless, a city. He had always favoured the countryside, even though cities did have their perks. They were never boring—however that was precisely what _made_ them boring, sometimes. Being in a city was overwhelming, and little detours from that life such as this were definitely cherished and well appreciated. He had spent most of his early childhood within a port city in northern France, so the countryside always had a special appeal to him.

Cabin number twenty two. He didn't even need to look at the key in his grip to remember that.

A wave of anxiety hit him when he realized he was getting close. Was Zoro already there? It still felt strange calling that bastard by his name, when he'd only discovered it at the conclusion of their last meeting. He didn't really see him as Zoro. Not yet, when he was so used to calling him a moss-headed bastard in his mind.

Sanji shook his head when he realized his mind was wandering. What did he have to be nervous about, anyway? Sure, the entire situation was a little strange and probably didn't occur in a typical lifetime. But a lot of things about Sanji's life were and had been bizarre. So to that end, this was nothing different.

His blue eyes lingered on the well he'd used last time in the rain to get water for their soup. He was definitely close now, and stared up when he caught sight of the cabin's roof. Taking slow, poised steps up a small stone staircase, his gaze didn't waver as the cabin came into full view. He tried to angle his head in an effort to see any sign of that muscle-head marimo, but couldn't see any. However he knew that didn't mean he wasn't there. The guy may have been a lout but he knew how to be absent when he wanted to be.

In due course, Sanji found himself at the front door. He rose a loose fist to knock, then shook his head, deciding against it. He was paying for his stay here too and didn't need such formalities. Plus he'd feel stupid on both ends—if the moss-head opened the door or if he wasn't there to begin with. Sanji stuck the key into the lock and twisted, the door opened with no struggle. He pushed it open gently, the creaking noise it made proving to be exceptionally loud in the silence of this environment.

He manoeuvred a little awkwardly to get inside with the two bags he carried, and exhaled audibly when he'd accomplished that. Swallowing, he called, "Hello?" whilst weaselling out of his coat after setting his bags on the ground. When he received no response he said to himself, "Guess it's just me."

He strode across the room and calmly opened the fusuma to the meditation room. No marimo in sight, and surely if he wasn't _there_ of all places, then he hadn't arrived yet for sure. The slender blond set his things down in a corner of the room and stared out of the wall of glass and frames, simultaneously rummaging through his pockets for his beloved lighter, and carefully picking out one cigarette from the pack. He unlatched the door section of the wall, and immediately felt the cool air rush in. He began to think he should get his coat, but shrugged it off. He wouldn't be out here too long, just for a smoke and to get reacquainted with the view.

Sanji took cool, perpetual steps to the cliff side, concurrently lighting his cigarette and placing the lighter back in his pocket. It was a sunny morning, almost noon, and he had to smirk around the filter at that. No signs of rain this time. He stood there at the edge with golden hair pressing against the right side of his face from the wind, streams of smoke lofting off in its direction.

He rested there for about three minutes before he heard something. Turning around and finding no one there, he scrunched up his face in confusion. Suddenly a green head poked up from the cliff side where the waterfall was and Sanji was forced to put on an even more mystified face at that. He had been down there? Sanji didn't even know it was possible to get down there. But when he looked closely he saw two metal nail heads, big ones, driven into the earth deeply, deep enough for it to be safe—if only slightly—for the man to have climbed down there with the aid of a rope ladder.

However, Sanji was even more perplexed when he caught sight of what was strapped to the marimo's side. Three sheathed katanas. Seriously?

Well, it was kind of cool he had to admit, but that was just so out-of-the-blue it made his eyes widen like he'd been slapped in the face.

Sanji raised a hand with his lit cigarette embedded, the other on his hip, "Hey, what's with the swords? And did you seriously just fucking climb up from there?"

Zoro seemed to ignore the blond entirely as he climbed up from cliff side. He brushed the dirt and rubble off of himself, "Oh? So you made it."

"Of course I did, what did you expect?" Sanji stepped forward as he said this, but paused when the apparent swordsman directed his stride towards him.

Zoro shrugged as he continued to move towards the blond. "Dunno, maybe I was hoping you wouldn't show up so I don't have to babysit you."

Sanji scoffed. "Babysit? Just who do you think you're babysitting you egotistical—"

"Did you practice at all?"

Sanji sputtered as he was cut off from his rant. "Practice? Well, I tried—"

"So that's a no?" Zoro was now nose-to-nose with the blond who stepped back when his personal space was outrightly invaded.

"Yes, it's a no, and stop interrupting me! And what the fuck is up with you power tripping, here?" Sanji exclaimed. Zoro rewarded him no explanation though as he grabbed the front of his dress shirt roughly, tugging him closer to his hardened gaze, "Whoa! What the fuck, you looking for a fight?" he growled between clenched teeth. Sanji got his feet ready despite them being slightly lifted off the ground currently.

Zoro's expression didn't change or hesitate as he stated, "I've got a test for you."

"A test?" Sanji asked angrily. "Well what the fuck is it then?"

Again the man said nothing but instead acted, shoving Sanji backwards with his fist still tangled around his collar. Sanji was shocked at that but recovered his balance quickly, his fingers enclosed around Zoro's strengthened grip on his collar. He smirked, a little flattered that the moss-head was so eager to fight again—and so suddenly, too. It gave him a rush of adrenaline.

"Okay, you've asked for it," he said, beginning to lift a leg to deliver a rib-breaking side kick but was interrupted again when Zoro shoved him. When he regained balance once more, he felt one foot teeter, and glanced back quickly—confirming that he was at the edge of the cliff. What was this fucker doing? "Hey, what are you—" another shove, this time packing less power but still quick like a jolt, "Oi! W-what the fuck!" If Sanji kicked now he wouldn't have any sort of balance to fall back on, and he didn't know at the moment if he could depend on Zoro to catch him, or keep that hold on his collar. "Hey, what is this?"

"A test," Zoro repeated.

"This isn't funny!"

"I never said it was—it's a test."

"A test of what? How much of me will be left when I reach the bottom?" The thought made Sanji shiver, and now he was clinging to Zoro's forearm like a lifeline as the man held him teetering over the edge at a 20 degree angle, a measly piece of clothing and his own grip keeping him from plummeting. His feet dug into the edge solidly, hoping to give himself enough stability to somehow get out of this. What the fuck was this fuckhead _thinking_?

"I want you to meditate. Right here and now," Zoro stated firmly. "That's your test."

Sanji stared up at him in amazement, his hair sprawling all over his face and into his mouth as the breeze seemed to come a lot harder now. "Are you _insane_?"

He shrugged. "Maybe a little."

Sanji couldn't believe this. He glanced backwards and his legs nearly collapsed at the high distance. The bottom was so far away and _fuck_, could he even trust Zoro to keep him from plummeting? His cigarette dropped from his mouth and sank down eternally. Sanji gulped.

"Don't look down, it'll make you nervous."

Sanji's mind exploded. "_Fucking_ understatement of the _fucking_ year!" he yelled shakily. "What the hell? What am I supposed to—_how_ am I supposed to fucking meditate like this! I'm shit at it normally, how do you expect me to—?"

"Just relax, and trust me," Zoro said as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do.

Sanji could feel his heart beating in his throat, and his ears burned in rage. "_Trust_ you? I don't even fucking _know_ you! For all I know you could be some fucking – shitty psychopath – I don't know! – who comes here to throw people off cliffs!" Sanji's grip on Zoro's forearm tightened at this. He really fucking hoped that wasn't the truth.

"For all you know, yeah."

"You wouldn't dare," Sanji's eyes widened in disbelief.

Again Zoro wore that cocky, all-knowing grin, "I might," he said in a singsong tone. "I mean, you are a pain in the ass and all..."

"Listen to me marimo, shithead—fucking Zoro! This isn't _funny_ you need to let me up right—"

"I'm telling you to trust me, Sanji," Zoro instructed. "Get rid of that hold on my arm and just trust that I won't let you go. Try to meditate. That's your test."

Sanji kept his hands wrapped tightly around Zoro's arm. Fuck if he was letting go of the only control he had in this situation.

"I won't drop you. I promise."

Even though those words _should_ have meant nothing—nothing at all, Sanji found a source of genuine truth in them within the man's deep brown gaze, staring at his confused blue one, but _shit_ this was a real mindfuck of a decision. It was one thing to let go of his only lifeline here, but to leave himself completely unaware through meditation?—_which_, by the way, he couldn't even accomplish. It was absolutely insane!

Sanji closed his eyes and made his decision. "Fine," he resigned, swallowing, his grip weakening shakily on Zoro's arm. "Fine." He held his breath as his fingers felt nothing but air now, not the strong mixture of flesh and muscle that he'd depended on before. Now all he depended on was Zoro's grip on his collar, leaving him nearly limp over the edge. He felt abnormal placing his arms awkwardly by his sides, trusting his life literally in the hands of a man he barely knew.

Despite this major improvement, Sanji's eyes were clenched too tightly, and sometimes even flinched very faintly as if he was expecting it to be _that_ second in particular to be his last living moment on solid ground. As if he expected Zoro to drop him. Well, Zoro didn't expect him to behave otherwise.

"Relax," he encouraged.

Sanji's heartbeat still remained in his throat but he let his eyelids rest gently, naturally—not scrunched up like before. Zoro hadn't dropped him yet, not yet, not yet...would he though? This is what kept his mind averted from peace at the moment—not because he was presently teetering off a cliff, not because he didn't have any measure of control, but because he didn't want to feel the ache of disappointment when that pressure holding him released. As if all of the trust he was confiding in right now—however underdeveloped it was—would evaporate along with that capricious fist, imaginatively liberating itself and permitting him to _plunge_, fickle as it was.

_Shit_, was he ever taking a chance on this one.

Sanji licked his dry lips for his next words, speaking in a relatively calm voice despite the circumstances. "Walk me through it."

"Breathe in," Zoro said, and Sanji complied. He inhaled the crisp, freshened country air with his nose, "Breathe out," and exhaled through faintly parted lips. His heartbeat slowed, even if he could still feel his carotid arteries pulse quickly, rapidly, like the beating of a drum, and he simply ignored it, provoking his body to relax. Zoro's instructions continued, time passed, and Sanji only listened to that baritone voice, nothing else. It sent him into a type of dream-like state, he blocked everything out, and half-dangling three hundred feet off the ground started to not matter so much, in fact it left him feeling like he was on a cloud, and really, he didn't know how any of this was happening and he'd never felt anything like it. It was so damn..._tranquil_.

Suddenly the mantra of Zoro's voice was halted, and Sanji was ripped away from this state when the pressure around his collar increased. He was tugged back onto firm ground, on his hands and knees, with Zoro gazing down at him wearing that damn smirk again. As Sanji was brought back into the moment, looking up at Zoro's expression, it made his insides howl with fury. Just what the fuck had that been?

"You're fucking _dead_," Sanji growled, standing gradually on shaky legs.

Zoro laughed. "Crappy thanks that is. You _would've_ been, if I'd have let you go, shitty cook."

Sanji's face turned red with anger as he swung his foot at the bastard's damn green-tea head, arguing all the while that it was his shitty fault he could've plummeted to his fucking death. Not even caring that they were still dangerously close to the edge.

— «»»««» —

After their ensuing fight, Sanji decided he was hungry enough to make lunch—he hadn't eaten since an early breakfast. Zoro seemed to agree that lunch was good idea as he followed the cook inside, his hand over his stomach subconsciously. If Sanji knew anything, it was how to tell when someone needed food.

Lunch was light but satisfying, a mixture of different type of salads, all mixed with oil and wine vinegar. He used a bit of balsamic on the garden salad. He also brought freshly baked bread and an assortment of finely cut deli meats, cheeses, and more condiments for sandwiches. Zoro was impressed by how much the man cared about food, and he secretly thanked this trait because everything the blond made was delicious—he never admitted this though, preferring to eat in silence, except for casual conversations that Sanji for the most part initiated.

The rest of the afternoon was mainly spent in the meditation room by Zoro, he didn't teach much to Sanji, needing to have his own meditation time. After all, that was nonetheless still the main reason he came up here. Even if the blond had managed to put a dent in his routine, he would still stick to this part of his routine.

While Zoro meditated, Sanji didn't want to bother him and continued his exploration of Ohara Falls, this time on a greater scale than just the area around cabin twenty two. He'd met some pretty ladies in the process, but didn't get the chance to flirt with them as they'd shooed him away in the midst of meditation. He found a nice sauna building which he'd somehow forgotten about when looking at the website to this place, and decided he should probably make use of that. Especially if there would be women in the vicinity.

At one point Sanji had tried to buckle down and do some meditation of his own, but found that he couldn't. He even tried to repeat Zoro's simple instructions in his mind and aloud, _breathe in, breathe out..._but that mantra didn't work. He began to worry that Zoro had to be the one saying it, that Zoro had to be _there_. It was a frustrating concept indeed. How odd would that sound if he had to explain that to that bastard? It was already a bizarre enough thought in his own mind.

However his experience over the cliff, Zoro's 'test', had proved that maybe he did need the marimo to meditate. Maybe he did depend on him. But only until he became good enough to do it himself.

Sanji was determined. Meditation at first sounded like complete bullshit but now that he'd actually experienced a little of it, he was fixated. It was probably the most peaceful sensation he'd ever felt, and the fact that it'd pushed his many worries to the back of his mind was a miracle in and of itself. He needed to get better, needed to be able to do it daily, anytime, anywhere. It soothed his anxiety magnificently.

By the time Sanji stepped back into cabin twenty two, it was almost evening and Zoro was out of the meditation room, his alone time seemingly at its conclusion. Maybe now would be a good time to ask for his help, but somehow he felt a little guilty asking that of him when he'd just finished his session. But Sanji shrugged it off. What did it matter? The guy didn't seem like the type who would care much about such trivial matters anyway.

Sanji stepped in the door frame that led to the comfort room, the one with the woodstove and a simple loveseat couch where Zoro was resting, his feet kicked up on the armrest and his head cradled by bent arms above him. Sanji didn't really know how to greet the man, but nonetheless offered a casual, "Hey."

Zoro craned his neck to move his head in Sanji's direction. "Yo," he greeted back.

Sanji looked at him smugly. "I see you've finished your photosynthesizing." Damn, couldn't pull off the nice act after all, could he?

Zoro sat up abruptly. "Huh!?"

"I said—"

"I heard you, asshole. What do you want?" he asked rather gruffly.

"Well, I was wondering since you've finished your little session, maybe you could help me out, and then _maybe_ I'll let you have some of the delightful dinner I have planned for tonight," Sanji offered as casually as he could, routinely reaching for a cigarette.

Zoro raised a sharp eyebrow. "Tch. You don't need to bribe me you damn idiot. And as if I care about whether I eat your food or the dirt on the ground outside."

Sanji held back a chuckle as Zoro set him up for another golden taunt. "Well, a plant _does _need soil to—"

"Shut it, dartbrow! You're pushing it."

Sanji laughed. He loved how he got under this guy's skin. He made him feel a genuine sort of mirth inside.

"I can't believe I'm gonna help you after all the bullshit you spew out of your mouth," Zoro shook his head while he rose from his spot on the couch. He gestured for Sanji to follow him, instructing softly, "Come on. Bring a jacket."

Sanji exhaled out of his nose, smoke spewing out like an upside down kettle, which he had to admit probably wasn't too flattering. Like he cared around this brute. He picked up his brown jacket on the way out.

"That's fucking disgusting, by the way. You should give that up," Zoro commented as he led Sanji out the front door.

Sanji frowned around his cigarette. "Where I'm from it's common, marimo."

"Doesn't mean you should do it. You know like 90% of lung cancer is caused by smoking?" Zoro informed.

Sanji's eyes bulged and he slapped both hands to his face. "Oh no, does it? Oh god, heaven forbid! All this time, I didn't know! As high as 90%!?"

Zoro shot Sanji an unenthused glare as the blond's hands went palm up with a shrug of his shoulders. "Yeah, I get it, you don't care."

Sanji waved a dismissive hand at him. "Well then don't pull that statistics shit on me. I've heard it all before, doesn't change my mind."

Zoro shrugged. "Suit yourself."

— «»»««» —

And so this was where Sanji found himself climbing down a rope ladder, unsure of whether or not to trust it's durability but not caring too much in the end. When he and Zoro made it to the bottom, the waterfall looked that much _bigger_. It was surrounded by uneven and jagged rocks, which somehow held a rough beauty he wouldn't have thought possible. There was a mixture of pines and deciduous trees. The fallen, shrivelled leaves of those deciduous rested all over—on the rocky ground, tangled in bushes and spots of high grass, and finally floating atop the gentle pool of water that streamed out into the lake. He had to gawk.

"When I first started coming here, this was my designated spot. I find it to be one of the most calming places here. It might help you too," Zoro said, facing the descending rush of water and scratching his head.

Sanji whistled, impressed. "It's pretty nice here."

Zoro nodded. "I think this is a good spot to teach you a certain type of meditation that focuses on mindfulness."

"Mindfulness?"

"Yeah—kind of like, being aware of things going on around you, in the present. Here, sit down," Zoro gestured to a spot facing directly in front of the crashing waterfall. The water splashing down made it kind of loud, but it was the good kind—a soothing kind.

Sanji complied, sitting cross-legged where Zoro had instructed. He pressed his palm into his leg absently when the man plopped down next to him.

"So," Zoro began, "sit straight, don't slouch, but be natural. Not too stiff. Close your eyes. Do the breathing techniques we've gone over."

Sanji did all that Zoro instructed. He immediately began to feel relaxed, and the rushing water seemed to help him fall into a bit of a trance even more. He waited for the soothing sound of Zoro's voice to instruct him further.

"Good," he congratulated. "Now. Focus on the sound of the waterfall, don't judge or analyze it. Just listen, and acknowledge it, and let it anchor you into a state of pure reflection. The trick really is sort of 'watch' without judgement."

Why was it that Zoro made this so easy for him? Sanji breathed in, breathed out, listened, watched, did everything Zoro told him to. There was silence after that, Zoro didn't say anything more. But he didn't have to; Sanji was already half-absent from reality, skimming it by.

Sanji wouldn't have known, but he wore one of the calmest of expressions to ever grace in face in that moment of lingering reverie.

— «»»««» —

When Zoro opened his eyes, the rush of the waterfall broke through his thoughts, and he was suddenly _aware_ of its presence, just how close it was and how loud. In his blanketed mind during his meditation, it had felt like a dream. But now it was there.

This, however, was nothing new for him.

In the moonlight—the stars were out, now—he looked around for his 'pupil' of sorts and found the blond crouched down, his feet planted on the ground and his long legs folded, one arm hugging them and the other extended, a wandering finger swirling over and through the surface of the water. Zoro frowned at this.

"Didn't work?" he asked.

Sanji shook his head. "It did."

Zoro straightened out his legs to stretch them. "If you come out of it early, you can just shake me out of it too, you know."

"I couldn't do that," Sanji rejected, his gaze still absorbed by the trailing movements the liquid made, by his control. "You looked too damn peaceful."

"You know, you can try it on your own."

"I tried. Couldn't get back into it."

Zoro didn't really know how to respond to that, so he just settled with a natural silence. Well, Sanji _was_ still inexperienced, so that was typical.

"Hey, Zoro," the blond called, and paused, waiting for Zoro's acknowledgement of his words.

Zoro's head perked up slightly at the use of his name. "Mm," he grunted in response, shifting into a laying position to watch the stars. He didn't realize the blond had sauntered over his way until he sat down gently next to him, with one knee raised and an arm wrung casually overtop it.

"Do you ever wonder if your life could've been different?"

Zoro grew uncomfortable from that question but didn't run away from it. "Different how?"

"If there was one thing, if one thing could have been changed to alter the rest. Do you ever wonder about that?" Sanji stared up at the sky, a painting in his mind of smooth indigo brush strokes, dotted whites and yellows, and feathery touches representative of drifting clouds. One big swirl of ivories, yellows, and blues to finish off the moon.

The question he posed ran so deep and yet it only scratched the surface, and perhaps it was that vagueness and uncertainty that prompted him to respond. Because otherwise Zoro didn't have the slightest clue as to why he did.

"All the time."

— «»»««» —

That night, Sanji was still as he slept, but his mind was drowning in her voice. He could smell the brine of the sea, could never forget that scent.

"_Bon, je dois y aller, Sanji..."_

His small hands reached out as she kissed his forehead desperately. _No, don't go..._

"_Tu m'attends ici sagement. Reste ici avec la mer et ton livre. Pas de bêtises, hein?"_

Heard the waves lapping against the shore, felt the calm breeze, desperately trying to resist its lullaby. _Please don't leave._

"_Rappelle-toi, mon grand. Je t'aime. Toujours."_

_Don't leave me alone...!_

He rolled onto his side but didn't rouse when Zoro stumbled to the washroom to splash his face, failing to wash himself clean of the memories, clenching his head in anguish—_come back come back_—a chronic mantra in his mind.

— «»»««» —

Sunday breezed by gently. Zoro woke up to find the blond still sleeping in the meditation room, and decided to leave him alone until he stirred on his own. Ignoring his rumbling stomach that ached for breakfast, he decided to do some more meditation outside, on the cliff side. He stayed out there until mid-afternoon, and that was when Sanji emerged from the meditation room, still in his sweats and his hair a mess.

"Want lunch?" he asked tiredly.

Zoro didn't move a muscle when he responded, "Sure."

Sanji prepared lunch as what should have been last night's dinner. Pre-cooked fish and rice that he simply heated slowly over the woodstove and served with lemons and soya sauce. Zoro really liked this one in particular—it reminded him of his diet back in Japan.

During the meal, Sanji had asked, "So what do you do in Toronto?"

Zoro wondered if others were normally embarrassed about explaining such a blue collar, low life job, but he didn't give two shits. "Truck loader. Bulk food and construction supplies, mostly."

Sanji made a short laugh. "That suits you," he said in a voice that didn't sound so complimenting. It was just his sense of humour, he hoped Zoro didn't take it personally.

Zoro shrugged it off and commented softly, "It's just a job."

Sanji picked up on the unhappiness of his voice. He hoped he wasn't pushing his boundaries by asking. "Are you in school or anything?"

"I used to be." Zoro paused, wanting to say 'back in Japan', but chose against it. "I had to stop for a while."

Sanji wouldn't touch that tender spot with a ten foot pole. Something life changing must have happened to make Zoro bail on his education. "So what did you study?"

"I was studying to become an officer."

The blond smiled and tilted his head, his eyes scanning. "Now _that_ suits you."

Zoro's eyes widened ever so slightly, but he was sure to relax not a second later. He wasn't so sure anymore if the cook's words were accurate. That naïve image he'd had in the past was distorted in the present. Wanting to move away from this topic, he reflected his opinion on Sanji. "Let me guess: you're a cook?"

"I wonder what gave me away, dumbass," Sanji said monotonously, but before Zoro could retort he added, "And I'm a chef, to be exact. A good one."

"Doesn't taste extravagant to me."

"That's because a guy like you has no taste, shitty marimo."

They went on like this for a while, before dying down after their meals were finished.

Once it hit five o'clock though, Zoro realized it was time to depart. It was a long way back home, about four hours, and he needed to arrive at his apartment in time to have a proper sleep in order to be ready for work. As proper a sleep he could make it, that was.

The two found themselves walking to their cars after checking out not ten minutes later. Sanji reached his car first, and Zoro crossed his arms over his chest in fake admiration of the little blue Mazda.

"_Spiffy_," he mocked.

"Shut up – the fuck do you drive anyway," Sanji demanded to know, looking around for a car that spelled Zoro's name on it. Zoro happened to point to the black Jeep Sanji was staring at in that moment. "Thought so. You would drive something monstrous and gas-guzzling. Black is _such_ a cool colour, isn't it? Oh, Zoro, you're so _cool._" He said it as sarcastically as he could muster. It was off the charts, even by his standards.

Zoro simply flipped him off over his shoulder as he made his way to the Jeep. "November 20th, asshole. See you then."

Sanji lingered at the opened door of his car, standing, and shouted to him with a devious smirk, "Unfortunately!"

Zoro kept his finger up, and it proudly stared Sanji in the face. It made the blond chuckle as he climbed into the driver's seat and closed the door.

Somehow, he couldn't wait for next month, even though he'd dealt with more verbal abuse in the last two days than a whole week in Zeff's kitchen. He didn't realize how long he'd been sitting there with the car off until he lifted the key to the ignition, and only then did he catch the wide grin on his face in the front mirror.

— «»»««» —


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** Sorry for the delay! I purposefully delayed it to try and update on Friday, but then I ended up not being at my computer all weekend, just got reunited tonight, so uh...yeah. Next update will be this upcoming Friday.

— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

**Chapter Four****:**

"_Asava:_

Mental effluent, pollutant, or fermentation."

— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

November came quickly like a storm, but the beginning to middle of the month lofted by like a cool breeze. Slow, steady, and before you knew it, it was gone. And the twentieth was here in its wake.

Solid black combat boots flattened the dirt and stone harshly as Zoro stepped out of his Jeep. Clad in dark washed jeans, torn slightly at the knees and upper leg, and his black leather jacket with an uplifted collar. The breeze lofted by and caused his earrings to jingle melodically. The air was cooler now, the middle of November was always so to show for the upcoming winter. And soon the skies would tease the surface with frozen flakes, drifting down like the various fluffs and pollens of the spring and summer. It was a cruel prank, because it wasn't to be summer for a long while, and winter was to be the conquering season soon. However, though most people complained about the winter, he didn't mind it at all. He didn't get cold easily with the build and homeostatic efficiency he possessed.

Zoro stuck a hand into the welcoming warmth of his coat pocket, whilst carrying the duffel bag with the other. He locked his car and strode evenly towards the stairs. That was until he heard the unmistakable crumble of loose rocks crushing under tire, and a distinctive deafening whistle that could only be made with two fingers to the mouth. Zoro turned around immediately, and a recognizable blue Mazda pulled up beside him. The driver's window was already scrolled down, which explained why the whistle was so audible having been free from the confines of the car. A calm elbow clad in burgundy was hanging out, leading up to the pale complexion of a hand tangled in golden locks.

Sanji grinned at him toothily. "You're quite the rebel—torn jeans, leather jacket. Where's the Harley? Got any skulls inked on you anywhere?"

Zoro's expression went from dull to deadly in record time. "You use Pantene for that feminine shine?"

Sanji unleashed a short, rattling laugh. Then he stroked his hair exaggeratedly. "So you noticed?" he said in a feminine voice, flaring his hair out and freezing his hand palm up to conclude the little charade. Then he put his hands back on the wheel, glaring at Zoro all the while, "As if, asshole."

"You so use women's hair products, admit it," Zoro teased.

Sanji shook a finger at him. "Nuh uh, this is _au naturel, _mon ami."

Zoro had to pause to process the way those common French words rolled off Sanji's tongue like butter—smooth, natural, and addicting. "I'm not your friend, damn cook."

Sanji stuck his tongue out at him, "You only wish you were, fuckface," and peeled off in front of Zoro, coating his lower half in a shower of dirt and rubble.

As he wiped his pants off, Zoro's eyebrow twitched in response to his aching desire to kill that man, but continued his trek and watched as Sanji parked up ahead. He should dent the bastard blond's car with a good sized rock. Or maybe put a dent in that skull of his instead. Yeah. The second one.

He shook his head when the blond climbed out with a simultaneous and oh so very deliberate middle finger raised up at him. He then watched as the cook opened the back seat door and rummaged around inside, pulling out a brown jacket and wrapping it on. He further poked around more inside and placed a backpack over his shoulder, then tugged out another bag to carry.

_More food,_ Zoro acknowledged. He then chuckled, _And Dove shampoo._

His eyes lingered for a moment on the cook's skinny torso and ridiculously long legs, before he turned his attention elsewhere, deciding to focus instead on the staircase straight ahead.

Sanji let out a huff as he closed the car door and readjusted the bag on his shoulder. The cold breeze was tugging at his hair and he had to blow out rapidly to let some strands escape that had been caught inside his mouth. He fumbled with his keys before pressing the lock button twice and waiting for the familiar flashes and honks that followed.

By this time, Zoro had caught up to him and they began walking towards the retreat in a comfortable silence. But of course the loudmouth cook couldn't have it remain that way.

"You ever been to Montréal?" Sanji asked, fumbling around in his pockets to grab a cigarette and light up—impressive, considering he was carrying two bags simultaneously.

Zoro recalled a time close enough to answer Sanji's question. "I once had to go there for a friend, but I..." he trailed off, his expression slightly awkward.

Sanji caught on to this weakness and split his face in two with a wide grin. "_But_...?" he asked expectantly.

"I got...lost."

"Lost!" Sanji guffawed. "How lost?"

Zoro scratched the back of his head and shrugged. "I entered Manitoba."

The blond stopped dead in his tracks to slap a hand on his knee and keel over, taking a moment. "_Oh man._ Manitoba. Seriously? You do know that's the _complete_ opposite direction."

Zoro flushed red with anger and probably one other emotion. "Shut up! My GPS broke, okay?"

Sanji sighed, calming his laughing fit. "Seems to me your brain did too." Zoro's mouth shot open to retort but Sanji beat him to it. "Well at least you didn't enter the States," Sanji noted, wiping a tear from his eye and sighing, to Zoro's great annoyance, as they continued up the stairs. "So you're the directionally-challenged type, are you?"

"No," Zoro denied immediately. "I just use a GPS is all. Not my fault if it fucks up."

After more ridicule and laughter from Sanji, and further rebuffs from Zoro, they were at the front desk and checked in quickly. Well, it would have been quicker if Sanji didn't flirt with the woman at the desk. The guy _clearly_ didn't have any female attachments in Montréal when he flaunted himself like that – well, that or he was a dishonest little flirt. Not that it mattered – it was too desperate to benefit him any. Zoro kept these thoughts to himself, but noted that they would make for some great insults later when the time called for it. And with this argumentative, feisty blond, the time _would_ call for it.

And now they made their trek to cabin twenty two.

The cook was an excellent conversationalist, Zoro noted, because the guy easily maintained their exchanges at a comfortable pace. In that respect, Sanji reminded Zoro of Ace.

"You should swing by Montréal sometime; I'll show you around so you don't get lost and end up in Bermuda." Sanji's suggestion had started out nice, but as always, it had turned sour with his own home-grown original brand of prick.

Zoro clenched his teeth and pushed Sanji to the side, half-aggressively and half-playfully. The blond lost his balance due to the shove and the uneven equilibrium he already possessed whilst carrying his bags. He tumbled down a modest ditch off the pathway.

"I told you to shut up about that, didn't I?" Zoro warned acutely with a smirk.

Sanji picked himself up from the dirt, wiping the grub off of his brown jacket with an irate expression. Surprisingly, his cigarette survived, still smouldering halfway down from the edge of his lip. He left his bags on the ground and _lunged_, aiming for Zoro's head and twisting to return another kick near his throat. All the while a small hint of enjoyment played upon his features; a gleam in his eye like the sparkle of the ocean in the midst of a striking sunrise—barely noticeable beneath the curtain of wrath—but he was purely _happy_ fighting at ease like this; without restraint. Something he hadn't been familiar with in so long. It gave him an internal burn; a candle lit from within after an epoch of darkness.

Zoro dodged almost everything that came at him, and he otherwise had to block. When Sanji's foot came perilously close to breaking his nose, he had to make a roll to the side and grunted. He barely recovered when Sanji was already on his hands—the guy's speed was admirable, really—twisting and twirling like a helicopter in flight. He finished this off with a double footed side kick aimed for Zoro's temple, using the momentum gained from his handstand kicks just seconds before. The guy fought like an art form in of itself. He was purely creative in battle.

However admirable it was though, Zoro ducked, grabbed, and finally held. Sanji was caught in an unfinished upside down position, both legs entrapped by Zoro's arms at the calf. Zoro smirked devilishly while he tugged and dropped. Sanji made an aggravated noise as he fell flat on his back, and the swordsman wasted no time crawling on top of him. He held his wrists down on the cobblestone, simultaneously making sure to have Sanji's weapons out of commission by keeping a firm grip with his thighs on his hips and his ass compressing the blond's upper legs. That combined with his impressive muscular weight had the cook thoroughly pinned. After all, how could the guy make a solid swing in a position like this?

The cook wriggled like a worm, a livid and somewhat _too_ anxious expression on his face. He must've really _hated_ to lose. "Get the fuck off!" he yelled.

Zoro curved in slightly closer, his eyes narrowing menacingly. "This is what happens when you attack me, crazy cook."

Sanji's blue gaze widened significantly at the devilish tone in Zoro's voice, and Zoro flinched his head back an inch in shock. What got the guy so alarmed all of a sudden? The blond, however, continued to struggle when that spark of panic had evaporated from his deep-sea eyes.

"You asked for it, you shoved me into the dirt!" he growled.

"What, too immaculate for a little dirt, pansy?" Zoro shot back, smirking all the while.

Sanji ignored his inner anxiety for a moment—something he gathered as a rarity for him—as a vein showed up on his head. He was getting really sick of Zoro pestering him about his style and tidiness. So what if he was a clean cut guy? He still had a mouth on him and realistically, wasn't afraid of getting his hands dirty – or rather he should say, his feet. Not when the time called for it, such as now. "I may not be a plant like you who requires it, but you've got it all wrong, marimo."

The cigarette, now a crumpled butt hanging loosely from Sanji's lips, twitched slightly as his teeth fondled with it. Zoro's eyebrow perked up at the cook's words, expecting an attack from Sanji with that obvious implication. Suddenly the smoking cigarette butt spat out of the blond's crafty little mouth, and landed directly on Zoro's right cheek. Zoro, having enough self control to not full out remove his hands and rub at his face, let up his grip just for a split second—but enough to give Sanji some hand leverage to help shift his narrow hips down, providing him with free legs to wrap like serpents under Zoro's armpits and over his strong shoulders, successfully grasping him in a powerful leg-hold. The positioning was awkward but damn effective.

Zoro hadn't expected the cook to fight _that_ dirty, spitting a butt in his eye like that. The damn things evidently had more uses than tumbling people dead with cancer, it seemed.

Those serpent-like legs clad in black had more than enough strength to slam Zoro down backwards. He felt them slither out from underneath him and marvelled at Sanji's flexibility when he recovered to his feet through a back handspring from the _ground._ Zoro got to his feet in record time as well, but most definitely not with as much flair. He stared at the cook viciously and reacted when he caught a spark in his eye. An attack.

Rubber soles swung by his head and torso like consecutive jolts. The guy was tough and quick but Zoro was _strong _and resilient. Any hit was swallowed as if he were encased in steel. Any blow he dodged was countered with a force much stronger. Zoro and Sanji danced with a natural chemical rivalry that could not be examined or studied. It simply was.

Zoro pounced and took Sanji into the ditch and dirt with his arms wrapped around his waist. They rolled down, struggling all the way, until they hit the bottom. It was there that they were discovered, coated in dirt and pulling at each other's hair childishly, by two giggling and thoroughly amused women. Sanji immediately got up; one side of his face caked with a streak of grime and his hair a tangled mess of dust and sun. Zoro found the contrast quite absorbing. Though he himself was equally as filthy.

Sanji's arms outstretched, he blushed in perhaps both embarrassment and attraction, "Oh, ladies! Shall I escort you to your cabins? Or perhaps the saunas?" The guy even spoke with that overly chivalrous voice that didn't quite match the situation—not that it was suitable for _any_ situation (it was simply ridiculous), but in particular, _this_ instance. Covered in dirt and wrestling on the ground with another guy; _not_ exactly the best time to play swinger.

The women simply chuckled more and shook their hands in front of them, walking away from the scene. They'd have a story to tell for sure. Sanji slouched in disappointment, a slight pout marking his features. "Damn tea-head, it's probably because they saw your ugly mug."

Zoro let out a short laugh as he stood up. "Yeah, right. Ever considering toning it _down_ a little when picking up chicks?"

Sanji gave him a dark glare before breathing out through his teeth shortly. As he bent down to pick up his previously abandoned bags in the ditch, he mumbled, "Jealous marimo."

Zoro, not knowing who exactly was being referred to here—Sanji or the girls—simply shoved the other man's shoulder on his way past, ignoring the blond's subsequent verbal explosion that he'd apparently revived.

— «»»««» —

The weather that day was a cool overcast. Rain was clearly on its way, and it ended up being a slow, trickling shower that was somehow calming. It was because of the sky's tears, however, that Sanji and Zoro were stuck inside cabin twenty two.

It wasn't so bad, though. Outside was kind of chilly anyway. The two had just finished eating another salivating dinner courtesy of Sanji, and Zoro realized that he did feel a fair amount of excitement to eat Sanji's food. The breaks they had between the months were anticipation for him enough. And that dumb smile the blond wore while they ate. The guy really did love cooking, didn't he? Zoro found it kind of...endearing, strangely enough. That the cook found such satisfaction feeding people to make them happy, underneath that angry façade he wore. Everything about the guy was a paradox—he was a monster in a fight, yet so harmless inside. Caring and compassionate above all, despite all – the kind of guy who'd shove food and insults in your face simultaneously, not skipping a beat.

He was jovial and vivid in moments like these. When they just talked and made jokes, when he tried to get Zoro to admit his food was the best fucking thing he'd ever tasted, and the stubborn Zoro denied it, even though it was true. Zoro would never admit that one out loud.

Sanji himself had discovered how much of a protective shell Zoro encased himself in. He was becoming rather obsessed with cracking it open like he would a tenacious coconut. The man barely showed any emotion other than a scornful sort of mirth and that conceited overconfidence that made Sanji's blood boil. The rare occasion he'd seen some light from within that shell; a minute crack that he made absolutely sure to engrave into his mind, for by now, he knew he might never see it again. Like on their first meeting in September, when Zoro had called him back to teach him meditation, and then the following morning, where he invited him to come back next month. And even now, the fact that Sanji was still welcome in this haven that had been _Zoro's_—not his own—but dare he say it, this retreat was now a sanctuary for the both of them. Zoro had opened that up to another individual despite his coldness and indifference. Now, it was _theirs._ And it had to mean something.

It made Sanji feel very warm inside. Comfortable.

_Comfortable._

"What's with that smile on your face, idiot," Zoro broke his thoughts.

Sanji's eyes focussed back on the garlic herb chicken he'd prepared and snapped his head up as Zoro's words processed in his mind. He nearly blushed, but covered it up with anger, "Fuck, is it against your rules to smile, you uptight moron?"

Zoro frowned in a deadpan fashion. "Did you just call _me_ uptight?"

"So what if I did?"

"I think that spiral on your face is inhibiting your brain from reasoning properly—_you're_ the uptight one," Zoro argued matter-of-factly.

Sanji glared at him, "Oh really? Well maybe your plant brain is inhibiting your personality, you emotionless freak."

"That's not uptight. That's aloofness. There's a difference."

"What kind of argument is that? There's no difference, that's still uptight!" Sanji fumed.

"Tch. Wrong. You're just upset because I caught you in a stupid daze."

"I didn't ask you to become enamored with my face. Just eat your food you ungrateful bastard," the blond commanded, his gaze moving back to his food as he picked at it.

Zoro simply shrugged and continued to eat. And he didn't want to admit to himself that while _enamored_ wouldn't be the word to describe what Sanji's smile had done to him, he'd certainly been intrigued.

Afterwards, he left his plate out sloppily and grabbed his phone, sprawling out on the couch and plugging the earphones in. In the corner of his vision he saw Sanji pick up the plate angrily, striding off towards the bathroom to clean it and his own. They had a limited amount of water through all taps, so he merely rinsed the plates and pots quickly. This was why he preferred to get water from the well for cooking (though with the coming winter it would soon freeze over), because he didn't want to waste any that could be used for soothing baths. Something he could use right about now, since Zoro apparently was using this time to go into his own world, rather than help Sanji with his meditation practice.

Over the last month, Sanji had discovered something strange. He couldn't meditate at home, he couldn't meditate by himself. But when Zoro was there...it was like all ties on his soul loosened, every tense nerve in his body melted. He didn't know what it was about the idiot, but under no other circumstance could Sanji meditate except in that man's presence. He'd suspected it before, but now he'd confirmed it.

Decidedly, a bath was a good idea—considering all the two of them had done to clean themselves up after that little dirt war was a change of clothes and a couple splashes of water. But being the considerate guy he was, he didn't want to waste their water for the day without confirming it with the idiot marimo first.

He walked back into the small room with the woodstove where they'd just finished eating, and bent in front of Zoro who was still lying there idly, stretched out like a cat without a care in the world. The guy's eyes were closed and relaxed, and Sanji had a feeling the all-knowing marimo was aware of his presence, but nonetheless stood up to deliver an axe kick to his stomach. Not as cruel an intention as it sounded – the kick was purposefully weak. But an intention it remained as his foot was caught just before it reached Zoro's abdomen, but he expected it and chose to calmly glare down at the man on the couch.

Zoro took an earphone out and opened one eye. As if Sanji wasn't worth the effort of both. "What is it now?"

"I'm taking the bath of the day. You okay with that?" he asked.

"Why are you asking me? Do what you want," Zoro responded without a second thought.

"Because we both got filthy from before; it's called consideration, bastard. Ever hear of it?" Sanji mocked, his foot still slackly caught in Zoro's loose grip. He didn't know why he didn't move it.

Zoro shut his eye again while shoving Sanji's foot off of him. It didn't matter. He was planning on cleaning off by the waterfall later, anyway. "Fine by me."

Sanji glared at him once more before striding out of the room and into the bathroom. A bath definitely sounded nice at this point.

— «»»««» —

Feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, Sanji strolled out of the bathroom in loose light grey sweats and a brown long sleeved shirt. He ran a hand through his recently towel dried hair that was still inevitably damp. Ambling into the meditation room to put his previously worn clothes away in his bag, he stood, scratching the back of his head, before exiting to look for Zoro where he'd left him.

He wasn't going to waste more time; he'd come here to meditate, and that was damn well what he'd do.

Zoro didn't open his eyes when he heard the cook enter. He simply continued to listen to _Masters of War_, one of his personal favourites of Bob Dylan. Really, he should be meditating himself—that would always remain his sole reason for coming up here once a month—but with Sanji here practically begging for his help, he found that he had to increasingly sacrifice his own relaxation to assure that Sanji got it in return. And yet, strangely, that was okay with him. It felt nice to do something selfless once in a while.

He didn't flinch when he felt an earphone pop out of his left ear, but that changed as the cook tugged lightly on one of his gold earrings.

"Hey, marimo. You done yet?" he asked in a cool tone, crouched down on the ground so his head was level with Zoro's.

Zoro didn't know why, but he felt a spark of playfulness within him. He reached out, blind yet perceptive in that way only he could be, shoving a flat hand into Sanji's chest and forcing the unsuspecting man to topple backwards onto his ass. Zoro opened his eyes and plucked the remaining earphone out with a slight grin. "Yeah, yeah. I know. God you're pushy."

Sanji detested as he sat up, "Quite literally, _you're_ the pushy one."

"Shut up," was all Zoro responded. "Come on." He was shocked that the blond didn't kick his head in from behind as he walked out and into the meditation room, Sanji following calmly behind him.

"So what were you listening to?" Sanji asked.

Zoro responded casually, "Bob Dylan."

"Into the classics, huh? Me too. Which song?" Sanji's interest amplified as he shoved some of his bags aside to make space in the middle of the room.

"Masters of War," Zoro stated simply.

"Ah," Sanji acknowledged. "Good song."

"So," Zoro broke the air's pause, "I'm going to try more mindfulness meditation with you. You remember what that is, right?" He took a seat directly across from Sanji on a cushion, making sure to give the man relative space as well.

"Yeah," was Sanji's simple response. He didn't look up; barely moved.

"Get into proper position," Zoro instructed, noticing the thin man sitting cross-legged but slouching languorously. Sanji straightened and placed his hands where they should be—laxly on his inner thighs. "Good. I'm going to get you to focus on the sound of the rain this time."

He watched as Sanji's brows loosened from their furrowed state, now calmly relaxed and yet still concentrated. Sanji listened to the familiar sound of soft rain, showering down on everything in its path.

"Remember to breathe. Can you hear it?"

"The rain or my breath?"

"For now, the rain," Zoro clarified—sort of. "Can you hear it?" he reiterated.

Sanji didn't move and kept his eyes closed as he confirmed, "I can hear it."

"Good. Isolate it down. Hear the specific areas the rain is hitting."

Sanji's eyebrows gathered at this. It was more difficult than it sounded to listen for specific regions that the rain connected with, simply because there were so many. It sprinkled down on the windows and wood of the cabin; on the roof and on the rock and grass. Just everywhere.

"Can you hear that?" Zoro asked, as if he were talking about something specific; something that stood out. Sanji didn't know what he was listening for, to be honest. "It's dripping off the corner of the roof. Do you hear that? Breathe, remember."

Really, now. How could he forget such an unconscious, involuntary function? But Sanji did hear it. The rain, it connected with the roof, slid hurriedly to the corner, and dropped. Dropped and then arrived on the ground, at the end of its journey. And it repeated.

_Drip...drip...drip..._

However, instead of visualizing the clearness—the purity of water—the drops of liquid became crimson; blood. His breathing quickened when there was the image of a limp, delicate hand; a woman's hand. Dangling lifelessly, streams of interconnecting blood on her forearm; rivulets of rain, of blood, flowing towards the corner. The back of her hand now—her frail, lifeless hand that was incapable of fighting back anymore. Those streams of crimson gathered at the edges of her soft fingers, also in between; gathered into buds of rapidly diminishing life, fading, and then plummeting to the floor, leaving her with nothing. Drip by drip.

Leaving her with nothing.

And then there was his young hand stretching out, subsequently clasping bloodied, dirtied, _corrupted _sheets, as the life pooled out of him invisibly, in a discrete way; a different way. Her empty stare peering into him; her emptiness. Because that's all that was left; drip by drip; her emptiness. She was left with nothing as the life faded from her eyes.

Hollowed out as he was about to become.

_Drip...drip...drip..._

"Hey...?"

Hands clenched around his shoulders; everything was spinning out of control. His mind was reeling. He couldn't feel his heartbeat but he knew it was pounding, could feel the vicious throbs in his neck. Couldn't breathe, took the air in shallow gasps. He choked softly and curled further into himself.

In and out. In and out. Mind over matter.

_Breathe. Come on...come on! You know your lungs are fine. You know your heart is fine. You're not dying. You're okay. Breathe._

"Hey, are you okay?"

Zoro's voice faded while he let loose a short whine, palming his forehead and trying to stifle the memories conquering his mind and body. He opened his eyes and attempted to hold himself together, to come back piece by piece to reality, but not quickly enough; found he was shaky and sweaty, wasn't breathing properly, _couldn't_ breathe. Then he was falling, drowning again, suffocating in these images, these horrible sensations burned on his skin, must've been, stifled by threatening images—memories. Hands, he remembered hands on him. The pain, the struggling, the – _no!_ Why was he remembering, couldn't he just forget – just – why couldn't he fucking _breathe,_ dammit?

He skid back as he felt Zoro's presence draw closer, not ready to deal with him, better to pretend him gone. Better to make himself gone – didn't want Zoro to think he was strange and weak, though he must've already, already – oh, _god. _What the fuck was happening – couldn't think straight.

Gasping in short breaths and shaking like a leaf, Sanji attempted to stand and he managed with a stumble. It was too much for him—too much. He couldn't control this. He closed his eyes. Running a flustered hand through his golden hair, he turned for the door. He could hear Zoro calling him as he collapsed on the wall – couldn't make it – and slid down, his breathing frantic, practically non-existent – smothering, burning through his throat in brusque spurts. He couldn't even tell if air was fluxing its way through. All he could focus on were the hands, so many, invasive, an impossible amount all over his skin.

He tried his best to collect himself, to tell himself that his delusions weren't real, that this was here and now and that was then, a far gone then. He closed his eyes and put a shaky hand to his cheek. In his little moment of self-retreat, he didn't expect the weight of hands on his shoulders and he instinctively flinched. His eyes saucer-wide, he gained an eyeful of Zoro's worried expression.

Eventually those hands disappeared, along with his delusions of more, and he was left to himself.

Zoro was hesitant. Touching the blond had obviously been a bad idea, so he spoke from afar to calm him.

"Sanji, breathe in," Zoro said gently; gentle baritone. "Breathe out. Come on."

He listened to the voice, followed its lead. He breathed. Deep. In and out, just like that familiar voice commanded. It only took him a short moment to come back fully, but when he did, again, his first reaction was to stand. A burning, instinctive desire to be anywhere but here with Zoro.

"'m fine..." he muttered, shaking his head. In his embarrassment, he was so deeply confused by what had just occurred. "I-I'm fine, now. I don't know..."

Hadn't had that bad of an attack in years. To the point where he had to desperately cling to reality like that, for fear of letting go. Made him forget his present. His scattered thoughts and vocalizations were the charred remains. It was sad how familiar it felt still.

"It's okay." Zoro didn't quite know what else to say.

Sanji looked away, wanting nothing more than to escape this room. _Fuck._ It hit him again and again without respite. Did he seriously just pull that shit in front of Zoro? Had that seriously just happened? How would he explain such a thing? He needed to take a walk – something, _something_ to alleviate this overbearing shame he felt. He didn't care if it was raining anymore.

"Sanji."

He didn't move at his name, but he listened. Attempted to ease his shaking. Breathed in more quietly, calmly.

"It's okay," Zoro assured, and then sighed, not knowing what else to say in such a situation, "...I think you need a drink."

Sanji didn't comply. He finally remembered how to walk again and made a conscious effort to stroll out casually.

Zoro couldn't blame him for wanting to be alone.

— «»»««» —

It was past eleven when he heard Sanji return. To be honest, Zoro was surprised he came back at all. A couple hours ago, he'd been convinced that the blond was well on his way to Montréal, bags abandoned and all.

Sanji took off his shoes by the door and peeled out of his jacket, which had kept his core dry, thankfully. However his pants, socks and shoes were soaked, as was his hair. He was just excited to wrap himself up in a nice warm blanket and go to sleep. After today's events, his entire body was beyond drained.

When he entered the meditation room, Zoro was sitting there and he seemed to be waiting. The man twisted to make eye contact. Sanji stared back at him, too cold, wet and tired to muster a glare and nearly turned back around due to the awkward exchange of silence.

Finally, Zoro broke the ice.

"You ever drink sake before?" he asked casually. He was trying to pretend Sanji's panic attack had never occurred to show the guy that it didn't matter. It didn't change anything. They wouldn't talk of it; it wouldn't be a topic in conversation. He would just treat Sanji like he always had—with that rude kind of banter which was curiously amicable in between.

Sanji rubbed his arm uncomfortably. He still felt like such a fool around Zoro right now. He didn't have the strength to meet him in the eye. But he responded nonetheless. "Yeah, shit's gross."

Zoro grinned, slapped his hands on his knees and stood. "Follow me."

"Zoro, I really just want to sleep—"

"Don't be a pussy, just one drink," Zoro challenged. The one thing he knew Sanji couldn't back down from was a test to his pride. He strode past the blond with a beckoning smirk.

Sanji grumbled under his breath and shadowed Zoro into the bedroom. He watched tiredly as the man opened the bottom drawer of the solid wood dresser and took out a warm wool blanket.

"Here." Zoro handed it to the dripping cook, and Sanji began unfolding it without hesitation before draping it over himself.

Zoro then crouched down to his bag and dug through it, eventually pulling out a large bottle of sake. He threw it at Sanji who caught it easily with the short chink of glass touching skin.

Zoro looked at him expectedly. "Go ahead. It'll warm you up."

Sanji looked at him like he was clinically insane. He studied the bottle and found what he was looking for. "It'll do more than that! This stuff is 25%! Are you trying to kill me? Not only that, but sake tastes like shit, honestly—"

"Just drink some. I didn't ask you to drink the whole damn thing. In fact I would probably kill you if you did that." Zoro chuckled shortly at this. He really would.

"As if you could. And can't you at least be a little dignified and give me a glass?" Sanji complained, holding the bottle up like it was diseased.

Zoro laughed. "You are such a priss, just drink it. You honestly care that much?"

Sanji's features scrunched up in competitive anger. "Fine," he muttered and popped the lid, "But next time I'm bringing you some wines that'll keep you away from shit like this."

"Wine? I should have figured you would be that bland," Zoro spat, folding his arms over his chest as he watched Sanji take a short swig, swallow, and cough as the burning liquid went down his throat.

"I'm just—" another cough, "—tasteful, bastard." Sanji shook his head, his sopping wet locks moving with him, a subtle flush to his cheeks from his slight coughing fit. "Shit, that's strong."

Zoro nearly burst out laughing at the cook's antics. Then the competitiveness in him kicked in as he stepped forward and reached his left hand out. "Give it here."

Sanji shook his head and swilled more of the sake down, this time stifling his coughs and covering his mouth with the back of his hand. His eye widened in delight and he smiled cockily, handing the bottle to Zoro now.

Zoro smirked at Sanji's clear invitation to a drinking contest. "This is how it's done," and he guzzled down about a quarter of the bottle.

Sanji gaped, but recovered quickly and snatched the bottle away, determined to win against the clearly experienced drunkard. He could only manage two gulps, the last one smaller than the first, before handing the bottle back to Zoro with a cough, covering his mouth with his forearm. Damn. He didn't like to lose, but drinking was something he tended to indulge in slowly. And if he was being honest with himself, he simply never was all that good when it came to holding his liquor. Zeff always did like to tease him about that.

Zoro's throat bobbed as he took in three large gulps and relinquished the bottle with a loud sigh. He handed it back to Sanji mischievously.

Sanji stared incredulously, trying not to exhibit his shock for too long before gruffly swiping the bottle from Zoro's hand. He didn't want to ask him how the fuck he did that, but seriously, how in the fuck? Well, at least the warmth running through his body was dulling his senses and reservations. As he brought the bottle to his lips, he knew the disgusting taste would be muted gulp by gulp.

Zoro chuckled as Sanji stilled himself after swigging. "I have a second one, too."

Sanji shook his head, still reeling from his hit. "You're fucking crazy if you think we're drinking all that," he said, then smiled devilishly, holding his hand out and waving it towards himself, "Okay. Hand it over."

Zoro laughed shortly, a playful grin stretching upon his face. "It would be your grave," he mocked as he handed Sanji the first bottle. "You keep going with that. I get the new one."

Sanji accepted it, knowing what was best for him even if his dignity took a massive blow. He kept a cool eye on Zoro as the man popped the lid and proceeded to take another swig. He glanced at his own half-filled one and he knew he would regret this in so hard the morning, but in this moment, he didn't care. He wanted to forget what had happened earlier that day. And so far, this was working.

Time was beginning to blur, but once Sanji had a quarter left of his bottle, Zoro was already three quarters done and still standing strong. The cook had a flush to his cheeks and his movements were becoming more and more sluggish. But he persisted.

Zoro took in a sharp breath as he finished his bottle. "Done." He bent down and slammed the bottle on the ground to prove his point. It made a hollow clank. "Come on, cook, can't hold your liquor?"

Sanji glared over the rosy glow of his cheeks. "I can hold it just fine, marimo." He took another determined swig and waved it in his grip.

And Zoro was impressed. These were significant bottles they were dealing with here. He was naturally built for this and also had conditioned himself to drink large amounts, so he really couldn't be compared to the average person. Not that Sanji was 'average'. By no means was he; his fighting style and strength was enough to negate that. However in terms of his drinking capabilities, Sanji was average, if maybe below that. The only people who had ever given Zoro a challenge were Ace, Nami and his own father. He had never been able to beat his father, though, and he supposed he hadn't been given the chance either.

A harsh clank shook Zoro out of his reminiscence, and a tired but determined exhale exited from Sanji, who was crouched wobbly on the ground. His hand was still clenched around the neck of the bottle, while the other wiped across his mouth slickly.

"Finsh'd," he slurred, using the edge of the bed in the small room to lift himself, but he wobbled and fell on his ass atop the mattress instead. He laughed drunkenly as he attempted to stand up again.

Zoro watched in amusement whilst the _very_ drunk blond clung to the bed, curved over with his legs bent awkwardly and his head hanging low, before turning his face up in Zoro's direction. His eyes covered by tousled golden curtains of hair, Sanji wore an inebriated, satisfied smirk that somehow made Zoro's insides tingle. He attributed it to the fact that he _was_ getting pretty drunk himself, though. Just the buzz.

"I won," Zoro said to piss the drunken cook off. Well, not that it wasn't true.

"Shaddup," the blond mumbled, somehow lifting himself off the bed and attempting to walk out of the room. Zoro watched until the man stumbled out of sight, and then moved when he heard the expected tumble of gangly limbs and flesh.

Zoro hadn't even felt his feet take him there before he bent down and lifted Sanji by the arm, ignoring the blond's protests. The guy was close to passing out, now. He'd looked pretty tired earlier, even said he was, so Zoro knew he needed to let him rest. He half dragged, half carried the blond into the meditation room where he set him against the wall as he proceeded to put his mattress into place. He smiled softly when he saw Sanji's head loll to the side; the guy was still muttering incomprehensible words to himself. Zoro juggled with the idea of letting Sanji have the bedroom for the night, but shrugged, figuring he'd already dragged him this far and would make sure to wrap the guy in plenty of blankets for the night.

With Sanji's bed all prepared, Zoro took his arm and placed it over his shoulder, before lifting the man to his feet gently and slowly. Sanji unconsciously cooperated, in a state of sleepy compliance. Soon enough he had placed the cook in bed and tucked him in three layers of blankets. He was sure it would be enough to keep him warm. He also made sure not to entrap the man in them—it was likely that, after drinking all of that sake, he would wake up with a crazy strong urge to pee. Zoro did sympathize with him there, as he would himself later tonight.

He took in the blond's near-unconscious expression. Calm and unaware. It seemed Zoro's plot to get him drunk after that incident had worked. It kept the cook's mind off of it. Kept him sane.

Zoro was confused, however. Sanji had meditated excellently for a beginner before, what had it been about this time that could cause such a frightened reaction? This wasn't just a simple matter of instructing anymore—it was a clear that Zoro would have to tip toe around certain things that could manifest that type of reaction again. Problem was, he had no idea what the cook had reacted _to._

Ah, fuck. He was no psychologist. This wasn't for him. And it wasn't like he was totally spick and span in the head, either. He had his own issues to deal with.

He didn't care if he knew what Sanji's issues were. In fact, he probably didn't _want_ to know. Because what he _did_ know was that seeing Sanji like that had hurt, and somewhere deep within him, he never wanted to see that look of anguish on his face again. Whatever the source of Sanji's problems were, Zoro didn't want to know. He had a feeling it would be too much for even him to bear.

— «»»««» —

Sanji, besides waking up at three in the morning to go to the bathroom, had slept right through breakfast time and up until lunch. He still had one of the worst hangovers of his life despite sleeping so long, and wobbled his way to the bathroom to clean himself up. And he still felt moderately buzzed too. He nearly threw up while brushing his teeth, which would've been an unpleasant event. Luckily he had been able to keep it down. After splashing his face with water many times and then drying himself off, Sanji stepped out of the bathroom languidly. He had a splitting headache and put his temple to the wall in frustration.

He never knew hangovers and morning-after-drunk could intertwine like this. His own fault for getting so competitive last night when he knew this would be the result.

That reminded him of Zoro, and Sanji decided to look for his drinking buddy. He was pleasantly surprised to find the green headed man in his room, sitting on his bed, meditating. Except this time, his three swords were placed on his lap—as if they were an extension of his soul, meditating with him. It was so uncommon to see someone with katanas these days—let alone _three_—but Zoro suited it. Again, like they were a part of his being.

As he walked in and took a seat on the bed, yesterday's events hit him like a tidal wave, and he unconsciously placed his palm on his brow, staring at the wooden floor blankly. He had been having nightmares lately, as well as reminiscences while awake, but he hadn't had an attack of that magnitude for a long, long time. God, he felt so damn idiotic. But he should've seen it coming. With the rise of his past taking over his life again, it made perfect sense. He was simply doomed to keep reliving everything when he so deeply wanted to forget. How could he get over this? The meditation had been helping, and as much as he didn't want to admit it, being with Zoro made him feel somewhat alive again. But it seemed it wasn't enough.

This was an obstacle that he just couldn't overcome.

It would always remain with him, permanently; undying; eternal. That was it. End of story.

And Zoro. What did Zoro think of him now, really? That he was pathetic, weak, a coward? What did he think? For some reason, Zoro's opinion—a man who he still knew so little about—really mattered to him. This was why he felt utterly wounded that the man had seen that side of him firsthand. That vulnerable state which he always tried so desperately to keep to himself. It felt like Zoro had successfully cracked him open like a locked journal and read all of the contents inside. He felt so damn exposed.

He didn't know if he was all that comfortable around the man anymore. He didn't even know if he should return after today.

Sanji glanced back at Zoro's perfectly still form, watching as he breathed so calmly, so in touch with himself. The man was the epitome of an ideal body—naturally tanned, muscled, bulky but not overly so. He guessed the best way to describe it was heavily toned. He was lean in a very masculine way, still maintaining that thickness that every man thought ideal. He was tall and broad, impossibly strong and opposing. His entire body looked like it could be made of steel. Sanji had to envy him; he had the body every woman desired. Zoro really must've been a hit with the ladies.

Strangely, that thought sparked a hue of jealousy within him, but not for the reason he'd expected. The thought of Zoro with women...he didn't like it. He didn't like thinking about it, and he most definitely didn't like visualizing it. It was an invidious and unpleasant concept for him.

"You can stop staring at me now," Zoro's voice broke out, and even though at this point Sanji knew the man wasn't completely unaware, it still surprised him.

He turned away, his face heating up. "Don't flatter yourself; I was looking at your swords."

"Katana," Zoro corrected.

Sanji scoffed. "Same thing. You Japanese or something?"

"Born and raised," Zoro then paused, opening his eyes to take in the sight of the cook sitting on the edge of his bed, facing away from him. "You couldn't tell?"

"Well I knew you had Asian in you, but you look like...something else, too. I can't pinpoint it."

"Want to keep playing the guessing game or should I just tell you?" Zoro stated blatantly.

Sanji waved a hand at him idly. "Go for it."

"Spanish."

"Spanish?" Sanji's voice cracked in surprise.

Zoro nodded, placing his katanas beside him on the bed. "My father was Japanese, my mother Spanish. Odd mix, right?"

Sanji shook his head. "Not really. It's interesting. Plus it fits what I couldn't match."

There was a pause before Zoro decided to ask the inevitable question. "What about you?" Zoro knew the guy _must_ have had a French background, but he didn't want to assume. Just because the guy lived in Montréal, it didn't mean he was completely French. Though he undoubtedly looked it.

"I was born in France, raised there. Came here about four years ago," and that was as far as he was going to go. "I like it here. And Montréal—Québec in general, reminds me of a mini France. It's nice."

"I haven't been there much. Only been in Canada for nearly two years now."

"So then, if you're from Japan, you must speak Japanese?" Sanji inquired. He was now turned halfway to face Zoro. He liked this innocent conversation, it was harmless and comfortable. Just what he liked.

"Of course. Why do you think I never question you about the whole 'marimo' nickname?" he asked, clenching his teeth at that, "I know what that means, asshole. I'm curious how you know, though."

Sanji felt himself reaching into the nonexistent pockets of his sweatpants for a cigarette, and sighed when he realized his mistake. "I knew a doctor once who was familiar with the language. He told me about them. They're like a national treasure over there—you really must've been loved, marimo-head."

Zoro poked Sanji in the back with his foot harshly. "You're one to talk, curly-brow."

Sanji laughed when he was nearly bumped off the bed. Then he got back to fishing for information. "So you went to school there? In Japan."

Zoro's gaze was curious yet distant. "Yeah. In Tokyo. I studied for a couple years before moving here."

"What brought you here? I'm having a hard time believing it was to unload truckloads of patties to McDonalds."

He really didn't want to have to bob his way around this, but it was that or tell the cook to fuck off. Looked like maybe yesterday's events did put a bit of a skew on his image of Sanji after all, because apparently he didn't have the heart to treat him as coldly as before. "Just wanted to go somewhere new. Practice my everyday English, that kind of thing. I was supposed to transfer some credits over, if they would allow it. They couldn't do all that much for me, so I just decided to get a job and stick around instead, I guess."

"You got a work visa or something?"

"Yeah. Should last me until next year when I can apply for citizenship."

Two years was the norm for a work visa, but due to Zoro's special circumstances, he practically got a free ticket in. He still would need to take his citizenship test after three years in the country and lose his Japanese citizenship in the process, but it wasn't like he planned on returning anyway. At least never to live.

Sanji absorbed this with a hum. "You should go back."

"Hm?"

"To school, I mean. Become a cop. It fits you."

Zoro looked away to his swords. He really wasn't so sure anymore. It wasn't like Sanji knew a goddamn thing about him, anyway.

"I mean, unless grunt work is your calling. How would I know? A muscle-head like you." A smirk.

Again, Zoro moved to shove him off the bed with his foot. This time harder than last. The cook landed ungracefully on the floor.

Sanji was about to retaliate when he froze suddenly, feeling a nauseating sensation in his stomach as it clenched up. "Shit," he said just before briskly stalking out of the room, heading for the bathroom.

"Ha!" Zoro's mocking laugh resonated in the short hallway. "Told you you couldn't hold your liquor!"

Despite the fact that he was currently puking his guts out, emotionally, Sanji felt a lot better. Zoro didn't seem to think anything different of him. It was an acceptance that he hadn't expected, but was so very grateful for.

— «»»««» —

The rest of the day comprised of Sanji cooking a late lunch, though he picked at it slowly to give his stomach a break. They didn't do any more meditation—both didn't really want to bring the topic up, and Zoro was nervous about making Sanji try it again. He didn't know what to expect, now.

But before they knew it, it was time to leave. They checked over their supplies to make sure they had everything before departing. Zoro was currently staring at his near-dead phone in misery, since he'd forgotten his charger at home. Looked like the radio would have to suffice for the journey home.

Sanji, on the other hand, was undeniably nervous. Even though Zoro seemed alright with him, they had both so obviously avoided the topic of meditation today that he felt the sole reason for returning here monthly had disappeared. And then what would be left? Zoro? No, that would sound ridiculous.

He also simply didn't want to place such a burden on the man. Sanji didn't know why he had experienced an attack during Zoro's instruction—if anything, being around Zoro should have _prevented_ such a thing—thus he didn't want to put the guy in such an awkward position. If meditation wasn't safe for him now, the very basis of their friendship—were they truly friends, now?—would simply crumble.

And so he was left packing up his things, thinking about all the possible ways to bring these thoughts up to Zoro without actually _bringing_ them up. Sounded ridiculous, yes?

But maybe all he really needed to do was wait for Zoro to say the date. Because then he would have a guarantee that Zoro would be _here_ next month. Then he wouldn't have to arrive alone, discovering that the guy had ditched his fucked up mind for some peace and quiet.

And if there was one thing Sanji couldn't deal with, it was abandonment. He knew that about himself.

With all his bags ready, Sanji took a deep breath and exited the meditation room. He turned and saw Zoro in the bedroom; the door opened a wide crack. He inwardly cringed when the wooden door creaked terribly as he gently pressed it open fully. Zoro had just finished placing his beloved swords in the duffel bag, and turned his head slightly as he heard Sanji enter.

Sanji didn't step in completely, just leaned his shoulder against the door frame like he usually did when he was uncomfortable. It was his way of playing it off.

Zoro turned his head back to his bag as he lifted it over his shoulder. "You ready to go?" he said casually, twisting to face the cook.

Sanji nodded as he confirmed. "Yeah."

Zoro sensed the tenseness in the air, and he felt at a loss about what to do. He wasn't good with this kind of stuff. "Something wrong?" he asked for lack of anything better.

Sanji didn't hesitate at his chance. "We're on for next month?"

Zoro eyed him strangely, suspecting what this was about. But he played it off innocently, "Yeah. December 18th. Why, you busy?"

Sanji shrugged himself off of the door frame and responded coolly, "Nope. Just confirming."

Zoro shrugged as he clarified again, "Well, yeah. Be here next month."

Sanji nodded and curved to stroll away from the bedroom before Zoro could see his reddened face and purely contented, relieved smile.

— «»»««» —


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** I don't think I will ever like this chapter ever, even after all these years, but, well, it's part of the whole thing so here.

— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

**Chapter Five****:**

"_Upanaha:_

Resentment or enmity;

clinging to an intention to cause harm, and withholding forgiveness."

— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

The air was now a striking, crisp cold on Saturday, December the 18th. Snow blanketed everything in its path, and it was falling down gently like wispy white ashes that day. When Sanji arrived to cabin twenty two late in the afternoon (he had run late back in Montréal that morning), Zoro was nowhere to be found. At first he shrugged it off, assured that the man would come and was just running late himself. But Sanji had been fiddling around with the cooking utensils in his bag in the meditation room for about an hour now, and had checked the cabin for Zoro about five times routinely. His chest began to feel tight as he realized that the man had ditched him.

He had been so worried about this moment since their last encounter, and to have it now pretty well confirmed, he didn't know if he could handle it.

These thoughts had been swirling around in his mind this entire time, and only now were they amplified in this pivotal moment where they could become reality. He didn't want it to be the truth. He wanted Zoro to be here, he wanted to learn more from him, to be in his presence. And as strange as it sounded, he wanted to suffer with him.

Because as he had learned during their last visit—gained from a simple collection of vibes—both of them understood the tragedies of life. The authentic tragedies. The ones you couldn't turn back time on—that couldn't be salvaged by a 'happily-ever-after'. The ones that continually persisted forward and haunted, settled in deep, deep under your skin forever.

And, consequently, it was the first time in Sanji's twenty-one year old life that he felt an attachment to someone that went farther than an obligation, or gratitude, or admiration, or simply because he was forced. No. This was something else. This was comfortable, dicey, addictive, fearless, and yet all together frightening. It was heavy, and yet weightless and carefree. Both equal and balanced. He had never felt all of these things and more wrapped around one sole person before. It was overwhelming, but rightfully so.

This was why he was now currently sitting against the wall, a hand clamped over his brow, resisting against enemy tears brimming at the edges of his vision. He was pathetic, overreacting like this. But Zoro wasn't here. And deep down inside of him, it ached. Reopened wounds.

And he swore he could smell the sea.

His breathing picked up and he felt that familiar tingle in his limbs. Immediately he recognized what was happening. A hand to his forehead, he closed his eyes gently and counted the seconds between his breaths and attempted to shake himself out of it before it got out of hand. When he recognized the signs quickly, he could counteract it. But the ability to do so came with a lot of experience and practice and often depended on the severity of the attack as well as how strong a grip he had on his mind throughout the ordeal.

He was simply too used to it.

Sanji pulled himself together quickly. He was stronger than this; he'd worked so hard to heal these wounds, he wouldn't simply allow them to open again—he wouldn't let them bleed as much as they'd bled before. They were still sore, but they weren't open for infection any longer. He made sure of that.

Not knowing what else to do with himself at that point, Sanji grabbed his coat and low black boots, swinging a dark eggplant coloured scarf around his neck while he hastily unlatched the door and went outside. A wall of cold wind hit him full fledged and he made sure to close the door quickly—though the strong breeze made short work of that for him. Tugging the hood of his jacket over his head, Sanji began to walk towards the edge.

The area was a different kind of beautiful now that winter was kicking up. The white glow of the surface, the trees sprinkled with soft snow, and the gradual solidification of the lake all made up for the uncomfortable frigidity that went straight to his bones. Through clenched shoulders and shivers, Sanji closed his eyes briefly, feeling like this may truly be his last adventure here. And all that freedom he'd finally had the opportunity of feeling? Gone like any trace of green that had once graced this place; replaced with white—blank and _empty_. A part of himself that could've been dubbed pure instead, if given that chance.

Though winter was indeed beautiful, it was cold, bitter, vacant, remote, and indifferent. It was every fucking feeling coursing through his veins right now, and even if he _acknowledged_ its beauty and splendour—truly he did—every negative thing about the season twirled in his mind, over and over again, until he felt like bursting. There was a flush of fire within him, and he growled angrily; "Stupid—" he began, "—shitty—" wound his foot back, aiming for a small loose pebble, "—marimo!" he shouted at the top of his lungs and kicked it clear off the cliff side.

The mix of snow and ice made him lose his balance, and listlessly Sanji collapsed backward, his legs spread out before him. He sighed and watched a cloud of hot air pool out from his lips as his body relaxed. It reminded him that he needed a smoke. Badly.

Just as he was reaching into his pocket to grab his prize, a faint shout caught him in the act.

"_Get your ass down here, cook!_"

Sanji sat up quickly. _What the fuck?_

His pace started steadily as he came to a slow realization, but he quickened his steps when that realization truly hit. He wound down just before reaching the edge parallel to the waterfall (which was still pouring strong) and glanced over the side. Through the haze of mist and snow, he saw Zoro's figure below, staring up with a casual hand covering his brow.

Fucking. Figured.

He had brooded over nothing.

And seeing Zoro there—Zoro who hadn't abandoned him—it provoked the unconditioned fire within him, which had been just_ waiting_ for an explosion, to adapt into that of a small flame; secure, promising, and most of all _warm._ So warm. Everything rewound; his wounds peeled back together like they were never there. Though he knew he could never fully pretend like that. There were still hidden scars which would mark him eternally.

"You think you can spew insults behind my back and get away with it!?" Zoro's bellow arose from the falls.

Sanji uncharacteristically released a laugh short of a cry as his voice cracked. Luckily Zoro wouldn't be able to hear it. He took a deep breath and shouted down, "What the _fuck_ are you doing down there! I've been sitting up here for _hours_ wondering where the fuck you've been!"

"Aww, miss me?" Zoro's voice teased, barely audible but Sanji caught it and immediately reacted in full swing.

"Like hell, bastard! It's just rude to keep someone waiting!" he shouted back down, grateful that the cold weather contributed to his reddened cheeks, disguising what really lay beneath. Not that Zoro would be close enough to see anyway.

"Quit shouting and get down here already!"

Sanji grumbled under his breath, rubbing his stiff hands together and breathing on them for some warmth, before making his descent down the ladder. When he made it to the bottom, he saw Zoro in all his wintry glory, sitting casually on a snowed-over rock and prodding at his swords. Sanji felt the urge to hug the bastard right then and there; he was really _there_. He had come back. And that meant more to the cook than Zoro would ever know.

"So what the fuck's kept you so preoccupied down here, huh?" Sanji spat, turning away when a fast breeze of rough snowfall and bitter cold met him from the side. He breathed out nasally and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

Zoro lifted one of his many katanas in gesture. "These."

Sanji turned to him with a peculiar expression on his face. "You actually any good with those?"

Sanji was elated to see his comment made Zoro grin like a child being asked to show off a new toy. "Damn good," he said simply.

"Hm," the blond pondered, stepping closer until he took a seat next to Zoro on another rock close by. "Why do you have three?"

Zoro's expression scrunched up for a mere second at that, then he stared out normally. "Because I like them all."

"You seem to like the number three, too," Sanji reflected as he dug around for a cigarette.

Zoro perked up at that. "What do you mean?"

Sanji stuck the unlit cigarette in his mouth and left it there as he lifted his hand unconsciously, as if on reflex, and softly touched Zoro's three golden dangled earrings; they jingled in response, like wind chimes drifting with the breeze. "These. There're three of 'em too." He snatched his hand away when Zoro flinched at the invasion. Feeling slightly dumb, Sanji camouflaged this by continuing to light his cigarette, covering the lighter with his cupped hand to protect the flame from enemy winds that sought to extinguish it.

"Coincidence," Zoro stated emotionlessly.

Sanji scoffed at that, and found enough courage to take a glance Zoro's way again. The guy was in a thin sweater—no jacket—and a light pair of jeans. What was he thinking in this weather? "You planning on getting frostbite? How long have you been out here, anyway? Long enough to keep me waiting for close to two hours, asshole."

Zoro sheathed one of his swords and placed it beside the others on the ground. "I don't know. Four hours maybe."

Sanji gaped. "Four—? Never mind," he turned his gaze away and flicked an apathetic hand at him. "You're an idiot, plain and simple."

The other man shrugged off that insult. "So I got a little absorbed in what I was doing, big deal."

Sanji looked at him curiously. He really wanted to see what this so-called swordsman could do. But for now he kept that to himself. "I brought up something that you might like, bushido man."

Zoro's neck craned in interest.

— «»»««» —

"Sushi and onigiri? Serving a Japanese man, couldn't get more cliché than that," Zoro said, staring down at the perfectly presented bento with a stoic expression. Secretly he couldn't wait to devour such a nostalgic meal.

"Shut up and enjoy it, damn grass head," Sanji responded gruffly. "And yes it can," he added, handing the half Japanese man some chopsticks.

"Ah."

The two sat down in the small living room of their cabin, Sanji on the couch and Zoro on the rectangular rug covering the wooden floor. Sanji eyed Zoro closely as the man handled the chopsticks with a natural grip, and proceed to pop a piece of sushi into his mouth. As intently as he searched, Sanji found no change in his expression to signify that the swordsman liked it. The damn green head was getting better at hiding that sort of thing lately, Sanji'd noticed. So he resorted to asking.

"Like it?"

Zoro merely shrugged with his mouth full. Knowing that was the best answer he was going to get, Sanji sighed and began eating his rice ball. He remained silent until Zoro's voice surprised him.

"Tastes like home."

Sanji looked up in the midst of taking another bite and paused, eyeing the man thoroughly before a small smile tugged at the edges of his lips. He glanced away, shrugging, and bit into the onigiri. His gaze inevitably fell on Zoro's swords resting on the cushion beside him, fully sheathed and comfortable. The guy took damn good care of those things.

Curiosity got the better of him. "They're important to you, aren't they?"

"Hm?" Zoro mumbled through a mouth full of rice.

Sanji placed his bento down on his lap in his sitting position, his stare directed on those swords only. One had a black sheath with deep violet-red circular designs running down vertically, its handle woven in indigo. Another had a sheath in crimson red, the handle a deep burgundy. The final one was just white; purely white and gold. "Your katanas. They're more than just good quality. I can tell you didn't just buy them at a high price and love them for their novelty."

Zoro stared at Sanji long and hard; a dead silence the only thing escaping him. He wasn't sure he liked where the cook was prodding.

"They're more precious than that," the blond persisted.

Zoro set down his meal rather roughly, some rice sprawling on the rug accordingly. He narrowed his eyes at the cook. "What are you getting at?"

Sanji's blue gaze turned to Zoro in interest. "Don't get so worked up. I'm just being open about what I've noticed, is all."

Zoro's glare didn't let up. "You're noticing nothing—they're just my swords."

"I disagree," the cook said coolly. "They're more than swords."

"You're starting to bug me, damn cook," the green-haired man voiced, keeping a close eye on the slow movement of Sanji's hand, inching forward to touch his katanas.

"That's only because I'm right," the blond countered.

"What are you babbling about?" he asked, playing dumb even with the growing rage inside of him. His eyes narrowed when Sanji picked up his predominantly black sword which rattled at the disturbance. Zoro stood abruptly. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What's the story behind this one?" Sanji asked in a deliberate tone. He unsheathed about a quarter of it, taking note of its unexpectedly blackened blade with a tinge of reddish-purple. It was definitely a stylish katana; dark and brooding, very Zoro.

Zoro struggled to contain himself as the cook meddled around with his swords. He didn't usually permit anyone to touch them, let alone an almost-stranger blond cook who seemed to think he had him all figured out. It annoyed him to no end. Perhaps because he hated that cockiness, but also because he knew the guy was getting damn well close to the truth. It wasn't a comfortable realization for him.

Sanji sighed at the lack of response, sheathed the sword and picked up the red one. Zoro stayed where he was, his eye twitching when the blond fully unsheathed it. The pattern on the sharp edge of the blade was a line of spreading flames, like added damage to its already deadly slice.

"This one?" Sanji asked, coherent with his previous inquiry.

Zoro's lips remained sealed—he made no noise—his hand clenching and releasing methodically.

In Zoro's prevailing silence, Sanji stared at the white one now, finding it intriguing that the sword's pure, heavenly gold and white form did not suit Zoro at all—it was almost screaming someone else's name—but in contradiction the katana was _so very Zoro. _The blond's hand crept towards the white one. "And how about—"

"Stop," Zoro finally spoke, a hint of desperation in his tone.

Sanji's hand froze accordingly, just above the hilt of the white katana. He looked at Zoro expectantly, surprised to find the man moving towards him. Zoro snatched up the white katana hastily and stared down at the cook with such ferocity that it could've knocked him right off the couch. He held the sword protectively at his side, clenched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were turning as ashen as the katana's sheath. Then the flames in his dark eyes calmed, and Zoro relaxed, sighing.

"The first two," he started, unsure of why he was doing this. As annoyed as he was at the cook's prying, he was a little touched that the man persisted so much; that he truly cared about delving inside of him and making those unbreakable connections without being afraid of the consequences. It was a rare sort of bravery that he had only known in one other person. However, he would only ever let it get so far; would only let it remain under _his_ control. "The darker one; that's Shuusui. And the red one's Sandai Kitetsu. They both belonged to my father."

Sanji nodded his head in understanding, placing the katanas away from him and handing them to Zoro. He hadn't expected that—the implication that they'd belonged to a father, a presumably dead one. Which was probably why he avoided the subject of the white katana altogether. He intuitively distinguished that that one held the saddest tale of all. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Zoro shook his head, stopping him. "They're damn good swords. Belonged to a good man. I'm proud to have them."

— «»»««» —

The rest of their Saturday was spent on walks, talking, fighting, eating, and simply relaxing. They avoided the subject of meditation altogether, and Zoro in particular had decided he would wait until the cook wanted to try it again. But without meditation, the foundations of their companionship had been lost. However, it also provided an incentive to get to know each other better. While that was fine on a less personal level, the fact that Sanji was trying a little too hard to get into Zoro's head posed a problem.

With the day over and the sun long set, the two decided sleep was a good idea. This time, since the meditation room was now too cold from the winter and its poor insulation, Sanji slept in the room with the couch and woodstove, their living space of sorts. Even if the room was small, it was comfortably warm with its enclosed space and the woodstove emanating a steady heat. The crackling wood sung a soothing tune that lulled Sanji into a deep slumber. But somehow, in the middle of the night, he drifted out of it and opened his eyes. He felt the compelling need to get off the couch, so he complied with that instinct. Pulling the comforter off of him and subsequently adjusting to the slightly cooler air, Sanji's bare feet slapped against the wooden floor as he exited the room.

He stopped halfway down the hallway when he heard a noise. A whimper. He knew it could have come from no one else. Sanji stepped slowly until his hand was unconsciously placed over the doorknob to Zoro's bedroom. The short moans were louder now; just on the other side of the room. The slender man turned the knob gently and patiently, trying to make as little noise as possible. The door inevitably creaked and he winced, but when he peered into the darkness of the room—illuminated only by the small window allowing moonlight in—he saw Zoro's face twisted up in anguish, disturbed yet undisturbed from sleep by the creaking door. Sanji instinctively moved closer, not thinking.

He froze as Zoro turned over on his side, facing him, his dreams making him restless in a biological state wholly designed for him to be rest_ful_. Sanji, intrigued and absorbed, bent down on his knees at the side of the bed to study the swordsman's face—this was honestly the most emotion he'd ever witnessed on Zoro's features at once. He was entranced. But he was also saddened when he saw the gleam of tears edging at the man's eyes in the moonlight. The man was mumbling incoherently, but the emotion in his tone spoke more than words ever could.

But then: "Mnn...Kui – na..." he said it with a crack in his voice, with such ache Sanji thought he could feel it in his bones, shivering up his spine.

"Kuina?" the blond whispered under his breath, almost inaudibly. His visible blue eye softened and the backside of his fingers instinctively sought out to touch Zoro's forehead, to stroke through his hair, to calm him and tell him everything was alright. Even when he knew he would never be the one to make Zoro feel serene. He had a feeling that only the name on Zoro's lips—that person—was the cure. Not him.

His long fingers stroked through Zoro's unexpectedly soft tresses, drifting down unconsciously to softly cup his cheek. His skin was sweaty, and the man continued to mutter words that Sanji could not decipher, but he deeply hoped that whatever comfort his gestures bestowed subsisted through to Zoro's nightmares.

And then without any warning, Zoro's eyes snapped open and the first thing he saw was the darkened image of the blond cook, staring at him with concern and his arm outstretched, touching his cheek, highlighted by moonlight. Sanji's expression of worry changed to that of shock, and he would have jerked his hand back if he'd been given the chance. Zoro's strong hand clutched around his wrist amidst his heavy breathing, scarcely woken from his nightmare. Sanji stared at those predator eyes in apprehension, yet gazed back defensively as well, not showing his discomfort as the larger man squeezed his wrist so much it nearly cut off all circulation.

Zoro tugged the front of Sanji's T-shirt towards him, forcing the cook to lift himself off his knees quite a bit. Sanji still watched him with resistance, but didn't struggle to get out of that death grip.

Nearly nose-to-nose with each other now, finally, Zoro spoke, his lethal eyes locked onto the cook's. "Just what the _fuck_ do you think you're doing," he growled, so low and venomous that the blond though himself to be defying death just by listening to it.

And he didn't respond, simply half sat there, limply. He couldn't even explain his actions to himself, let alone...

Zoro leaned back and tugged Sanji closer before propelling him backwards and into the small nightstand. "Answer me!" he roared along with the loud thud and crash the cook's body made against the tumbling furniture.

Sanji grunted and picked himself up, but still remained void of words. He didn't even move when Zoro leapt off of the bed, fisted his collar again and slammed him up against the wall. Sanji winced when the man added extra pressure to his neck with his forearm.

"Answer me, huh!?" Zoro screamed at him directly. Sanji's lip twitched at the booming voice so close to his ears, through hidden clenched teeth and a firm jaw, yet his unyielding glare did not falter. "The fuck were you doing?"

No response, but Sanji made a quick effort to get Zoro's arm off of his neck, trying to push the man off of him. Zoro pressed himself further at this. The wall behind them allowed for a thump in response to his abrasiveness.

"You nosey fucker; stay out of my business," Zoro warned with a growled undertone. Then he added, "Did I study _you_ when you had your little _freak_ out last month? No! So _fuck _off!"

At this Sanji's heart beat sped up; he felt it in his throat. His hardened eyes narrowed further, as he opened his lips. "Get the fuck off of me," he said lowly, simply, and deadly.

Zoro shoved the thin blond against wall again and curved his face into the blond's, intimidating, "You're a real piece of work. You've got some fucking nerve, sticking your nose in my business and then getting all worked up when I stick mine in yours. Yet unlike you, I have enough fucking _respect_ to know where to draw the line."

Sanji's mind was blank and he didn't know how to respond. Probably because what Zoro was saying was undeniably true. But what Zoro didn't understand was that it was precisely _because_ of their issues, seeming so similar in nature, that Sanji was lulled into a sense of connection; of someone who finally understood. He simply needed to crack the swordsman open; to enhance those connections; to truly _feel_ that certainty—because it was the only solidarity he had ever experienced in his life. He had never been so sure of anything else before. How could he resist?

Sanji shoved at Zoro, hard, but the man kept him in place. And Zoro warned with a snarl in his tone, "You stay the fuck away from me."

With that, he released Sanji and stalked out of the room. Sanji soon after heard the front door slam shut, and it was then that he knew he was alone. He placed a hand to his brow, and slid against the wall to the floor. Alone.

Fuck.

— «»»««» —

Sanji didn't sleep the rest of the night. Neither did Zoro, he assumed, because he hadn't come back yet. Beginning to worry that the guy was freezing to death under a tree or something, Sanji put on some jeans and his coat, setting out to find the idiot. His first place to check ended up being spot on. The base of the waterfall. He climbed down the rope ladder and saw as Zoro's figure came into clearer view. The man was standing completely still, holding one sword in front of himself unsheathed and blade up. His eyes were closed.

He was meditating.

Deciding not to get too close this time, Sanji sat down on a somewhat distant rock and studied Zoro closely. The day was sunny, snowflakes drifting down softly and sparkling in the rays. It really was beautiful, and Zoro's calm and serene face, while concentrated, heightened the scenery. He observed the sword Zoro held clenched protectively, and noted that it was the white one. The heavenly katana which both suited and repelled Zoro's nature so remarkably.

Sanji repeated that name in his head—_Kuina_—and discovered that it comfortably fit the katana perfectly.

Then Zoro moved. He took his beloved sword and shifted it sideways, perpendicular to his body, smooth as wave. He planted his foot in front of him, his eyes remained closed, and he moved the sword with him, flowing and fluid. It was like he was dancing with it—dancing with something long lost. Sanji was fixated.

Then Zoro's movements packed more energy and precision. Now he was fighting with it. Each swipe whooshed in the air, each step crunched with the thick snow under his feet. He thrust, jabbed, blocked, parried; all of this against some invisible foe. His technique was absolutely incredible. Everything was so fluid, and yet so damn powerful.

He tugged the hilt away from him, and brushed his fingers against the blade as he did so, then sheathed it quickly. His dark brown eyes opened and didn't even turn to Sanji, sitting there on a rock in front of him with his chin resting in his palm. Despite this, Sanji straightened up, placing his hands on his lap in surprise. Zoro stared out at the gleam on the iced over lake; every snowflake resting on its surface seemed to illuminate and sparkle in the presence of the sun.

His gaze went to Sanji, who looked away in this awkward situation. The blond spoke softly to break the tense air. "Want breakfast, marimo?"

Zoro scoffed at him and stalked towards the lake. The roaring rush of the waterfall served to diminish the cook's voice to his satisfaction. But Sanji was persistent as always. He vaguely heard the blond's soft footsteps behind him.

"I told you to stay away from me."

Sanji almost growled in frustration. "Look, I'm sorry okay? Is that what you want? I woke up last night and you were just – you looked so..." he drifted off, not sure if he had a place in saying anything more.

"I looked what?" Zoro asked emotionlessly.

Sanji sighed, hesitating. He knew he wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of this discussion, after all. "Traumatized." Zoro didn't respond, but his shoulders visibly tensed. "I don't know what I was thinking, alright? I just acted. So let's just forget about the whole thing and have breakfast already," he resolved, plucking out a cigarette in the uncomfortable atmosphere.

"Not so easily done, cook. You crossed the line last night, a personal line," Zoro began to explain deplorably, and then he turned around to face the slimmer man. When he was met with the cook's sincerely apologetic expression, he sighed and scratched the back of his head. "But breakfast sounds good," he grumbled out, glancing to the side.

Sanji smiled subtly under a downward cast glance. "Then come on, shitty marimo."

The two made it back up to the cabin in relative silence, but it was a silence they both could deal with. It was probably the best resolve they were going to get.

— «»»««» —

After breakfast, the duo decided to go down to the waterfall again. Even in the cold weather, it was the ideal place for relaxation. No meditation would take place there today, but there was a calming atmosphere there that the two relished. Their competitive nature would, however, change that. Sanji was a little surprised to see Zoro bringing his swords. He inwardly smirked. Maybe he would be able to see what Zoro could really do with those things.

So he asked, "What're you bringing those for?"

Zoro simply responded, "Practice."

They were now at the bottom of the rope ladder. "Against me?"

Zoro stared at Sanji incredulously as he stepped onto horizontal stone and snow. "Are you nuts?"

"You think I can't spar against those little knives?" Sanji challenged, a competitive gleam in his eye.

Zoro laughed sharply. "This isn't cooking; these aren't _knives_. They'll cut you apart."

Sanji shrugged. "Well, there's no arguing that. Use the backsides, then."

The swordsman raised a sharp eyebrow, "You being serious right now? You want to fight me when I'm armed and dangerous?"

The blond cook smirked. "You may be armed, but you'll never be dangerous."

That caused a spark in Zoro's narrow eyes. He quickly unsheathed two swords, leaving one remaining strapped to his side; the forbidden white katana that matched the pearly snow blanketing their surroundings.

Sanji stood confidently, his hands tucked safely and casually away in his pockets. He already had a smoking cigarette hanging from his lips. He taunted, "What's the point in having three swords when you can't use them all at once?"

Zoro tilted his head dangerously as he flipped the two swords in both hands, backside first, perfectly synchronized. "Who says I can't use all three? I'm cutting you some slack, cook."

"Don't." Sanji's teeth bit down slightly on the orange filter of his cigarette, and he breathed out a nonchalant plume of smoke, "I'm curious. How does the great swordsman Zoro wield three katanas?" he egged.

Zoro didn't move to touch the third. "You don't want to find out."

"I think I _do_," the cook said, propelling forward, completely mindful of the hazardous effect the snow made on his footing. The swordsman would no doubt have similar issues, but at least on that level they were equal.

Zoro harmonized immediately with Sanji's movements, blocking a powerful soaring leg with the back of his katana. When the cook dipped his legs down from his handstand position into a groundless trip kick, Zoro moved in line with him, planting the other sword down, its backside connecting with Sanji's attacking leg. Sanji flipped backwards to avoid the subsequent incoming dull blades, then sprung forward gracefully with a front handspring, leaving it to momentum to pack the power in his feet. Zoro's blades crossed protectively, withstanding the blond's double footed kick. Sanji depended on Zoro's strengthened hold to recover, springing off of those crossed blades behind him and then dodging from side to side again and again as Zoro resiliently kept the rush of his swords mere centimetres from contact.

Sanji knew he was managing well, so he called out mockingly, "I'm getting bored, here, marimo! Give me three to purée!"

Zoro grunted in response, leaping forward with a new fire that flickered dangerously; uncontrolled. He attacked Sanji from all fronts, slicing his blades like lightning at the blond, nearly giving the guy a wound to the cheek from the tip of one katana.

There was a break in the fight in which Sanji managed to leap off of Zoro's head behind him, and the swordsman turned around buoyantly. "Unsheathe that third sword Zoro! Is it too holy to be used against me?" Sanji taunted as he bounced on stance, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He scoffed condescendingly, "I never expected you to be such a sentimental sap!"

Honestly, he knew he was going a little far, especially with the vibes he'd received about the sentimentality of that katana, but he _really_ wanted to see Zoro at his best. There was something about it that fuelled him like nothing else and self-restraint couldn't tie him down anymore.

That comment caused the swordsman to flare up, that flicker of fire now an outburst of flames. "That's because you don't know me at all," he said darkly, lunging forward with his arms and swords outstretched, sharp side up, "so stop pretending you do!"

Sanji's eyes widened exuberantly at Zoro's genuine change in attitude. This wasn't an annoyed, playful response like they'd previously exchanged. This was Zoro showing a wound, and presenting it with a perilous edge. This was the Zoro he'd witnessed last night. This was Zoro _angry._ And he liked it; deep down, he wanted to see more.

Now the fight became entirely serious. Sanji definitely recognized the fact that Zoro wasn't using the backside of his katanas anymore, and consequently he dodged more desperately. With the threat of his head being chopped off, he didn't blame himself. But it all made their fight that much more exhilarating; cutthroat; _intimate._ The fact that Zoro was attacking with such vehemence and intensity—and his _moves_—it was all incredibly alluring. Sanji was entranced by the way the swordsman truly was a _swordsman_. He'd noticed the lack of blades when his back was turned; noticed Zoro's prompt effort to make sure Sanji was facing him. Noticed the naturally graceful manner in which the man danced with his katanas. He made it an art form. And their surroundings—a contrasting mix between snow and rock that only enhanced his beauty and strength. His movements as fleeting and altering as the drifting flakes in the air; but the utter _power_ behind his attacks as stubborn and rigid as the solid stone beneath their feet.

And he was still only using two. Sanji imagined Zoro's true skills remained blanketed—shrouded in mystery—until he unsheathed that third white katana. And that was just what he was going to make him do.

"It belonged to—" a swipe and a graceful dodge, "—someone important, right? That's why you don't want to—hah!" Saved again by his agility, this time Sanji swore he could've lost a finger. "—Ah, don't want to use it, right?"

Zoro's mind, meanwhile, was a blur of fury and protest. The cook had _really_ set him up with that insensitive comment, and he was prying _again, _but he was telling himself that he needed to stop before he really hurt him. To the blond's credit, he was holding up pretty well. However, the fact was, currently Zoro wasn't in a proper state of mind to control himself. The cook had been pushing him to his limit this entire weekend. And this battle had been nothing but one massive catalyst spurring his rage on and on until his own name began to lose meaning and animal instincts clouded his clarity of mind. All courtesy of the nosey cook and his fucked up death wish. One more comment like that and he might just kill the blond for real.

There was no denying that this fury chained up inside, brewing and brewing, wouldn't cease to overwhelm him—a battle that could not be won against himself. He'd known this about himself for quite some time now. His anger blinded his judgement ever since the tragedy. It was _weak_; something he so desperately wanted to change. He could not be weak. Roronoa Zoro was _not_ weak.

But he knew he couldn't keeping battling himself like this.

Sanji on the other hand, continued to taunt, this time in the midst of a back flip, "You think I can't handle it?"

Zoro growled lowly when the cook landed, not saying a word which was perhaps more dangerous than speaking. He stepped forward slowly, ominously. Almost like an unspoken threat. Sanji wasn't realizing the seriousness of his words. Or maybe he did, but simply didn't know when to stop. What he was trying to make Zoro do; it wasn't a simple performance of his real skills—it was an exposure to weakness. The cook was mocking him to prompt him to use Kuina's blade—something that didn't settle well with the swordsman, for he never used it in the heart of battle, outside of one predestined fight. He would use her blade on one man only. And that man was most definitely not Sanji. And he knew, he _knew_ that Sanji couldn't possibly have the slightest clue about the sword, but the subject was so tender to Zoro's heart that it didn't matter. Anything that touched that tenderness and made him sore—it was an enemy of his. Black and white. There were no exceptions; there never were when it came to this.

"What's wrong with you, Zoro!? You _coward!"_

Maybe it was the lack of sleep catching up with him. Maybe it was his emotions, two full years' worth of pent up rage unleashed full-fledged, released from their leashes, chains and bars. Maybe it was everything combined.

In that moment, Roronoa Zoro's identity slipped and he became an entity of pain and wrath.

And when he pieced himself back together again, he was breathing heavily; unnaturally. He wasn't standing, he was crouched. His two blades were held steadily at something—something that was respiring quickly from under him; struggling, writhing. Shouting. One sharp edge of his katana pressing against that something's throat, trickling blood. The other blade was pierced into his opponent's shoulder.

Horrified blue eyes—_eyes_, both of them—staring up at him through tousled golden tresses. So much emotion in those eyes, so much that brought Zoro's identity back one by one, piece by piece. First of all, horror. Then pain. Then sadness. And then astonishment. Within his now trembling hand, his katana rattled, relieving off of that blood-spattered throat, a mere threat in the heat of battle. The sword embedded vertically through flesh and rock, however, remained frozen.

Fuck.

He hadn't demonstrated his skill, but who he truly was.

— «»»««» —


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: **Another chapter that I dislike har har har. Enjoy I guess? Also sorry if I've been slow on responses. I always am (orz) but I've really appreciated all the feedback I've received so far. Thank you everyone who has reviewed. :)

— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

**Chapter Six****:**

"_Ottappa:_

Moral dread, fear of the results of wrongdoing."

— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

Guilt. Guilt and anger. Those were the emotions he felt then. He'd let them spiral out of control. When had he become so fucking _weak_?

Sanji was staring up at him, wide-eyed, so piercingly that those icy irises froze Zoro in his place. Both were breathing rapidly, the swordsman open mouthed and the cook through clenched teeth. Both didn't speak. Sanji was in too much shock to fully realize what had just happened. Zoro on the other hand, comprehended too much.

What had he done? What had he _done_?

_What have I done?_

Crimson was spreading out underneath the impact point onto the pure snow, scattering and grasping farther and farther, seeking to make that heavenly white impure. The same liquid was splattered against the left side of Sanji's ivory skin and sunny locks, corrupting those divine features. Zoro, no doubt, had spilled the blond's blood on himself, but at the moment that was far from his concern.

And all he could do was sputter: "Shit." Then he took a deep breath to try and ease his voice. "Fuck, Sanji, I..." he croaked brokenly, "I..." His grip tightened around the katana still embedded in Sanji's left shoulder, and he leaned his head down in defeat. Defeat against himself.

"Don't move it," the blond growled out, clutching shakily at Zoro's coat with his right hand and pulling him a bit closer. He stared at the man directly; there was neither fear nor a waver in his gaze. Simply confidence. "Just...go get something, something to wrap my shoulder in, you idiot."

Zoro sent him his gaze, a fixation that spelled surprise. Surprise that Sanji wasn't in a stage of panic or rage, that he was so calm and collected. But despite his words, Zoro didn't move, not yet. "I didn't mean—"

"Moron, we'll talk about it later. I don't want to bleed out here in the cold," the blond grunted, relinquishing his grip on Zoro's coat and placing that hand on his injured shoulder, pressing gingerly. "Go."

Zoro released his death grip on Sandai Kitetsu, and easily it remained vertical without his help, sturdily implanted in the snow, dirt and flesh. Sanji didn't move, if he did it would cause him pain and Zoro knew it. Overwhelmed by guilt, he unzipped his coat and ripped it off hastily.

"What are you doing? I told you to go!" Sanji's aggravated voice shot out as he raised his head. He then clicked his tongue and shut his eyes, regretting the movement thoroughly when it aggravated his wound. "Damn."

Zoro at this point had peeled off his white T-shit underneath, leaving his torso completely bare in the frigid weather. His coat remained sprawled and abandoned at the side as he tore the shirt up into large strips. "I'm not leaving you here, not when I've caused this."

Sanji furrowed his eyebrows in anger and was about to respond when his features relaxed and his eyes widened at the green-haired man's chest. Situated there on perfectly bronzed skin and rippling muscle, was a long, _extensive_ scar running diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip. Sanji's mouth froze both in shock and from the cold. Where in the hell did this crazy swordsman get such a dangerous scar? It looked like it had nearly _killed_ him; cleaved him in two. Those thoughts were wiped from his mind as Zoro prodded more at his wound. Clenching his eyes, he breathed in through his teeth huskily and held the air in his lungs before strain forced him to release it in a choppy exhale. "Fuck."

This only enhanced Zoro's troubled expression. "Sorry."

"S'okay," the blond slurred. "Just do it already."

Zoro nodded with an uneasy frown and parted his fingers to support Sanji's blood covered shoulder, the other hand occupied with a steady grip on the handle of his culprit katana. "You shouldn't bleed out too much; luckily I didn't hit any arteries, or your lung, just muscle." Then he paused in concern. "Sanji, you can move your left hand, right?"

Sanji stared at him, then glanced down at his left hand. _Oh god,_ he hoped he could still move it. When he tested, he succeeded with the strong and familiar twitch of fingers, and couldn't repress the smile or relieved sigh that escaped his lips. "Yeah, I can move it."

Zoro was allayed as well. It was probably because katanas were built to be thin that he'd only hit a non-lethal area, and not torn enough nerves to paralyze. Nonetheless he was taking the cook to the herbalist shop that this retreat contained—there was a naturalist doctor that worked there who would be able to help. And then afterwards, the nearest hospital...wherever that was.

"This'll hurt; I'll try my best to take it out as smoothly as possible. Brace yourself."

"Just do it already!" Sanji commanded impatiently, clenching his teeth in preparation.

Without any hesitation, Zoro jerked the katana upwards perfectly vertical, sharply and quickly, like a jolt. Sanji's mind was only able to register the pain after the metal broke away from his shoulder muscle, but no moan escaped his tightly sealed lips. He just kept his eyes closed; every feature on his face scrunched up to withstand the agony. He preserved his breath, waiting for the ache to subside, before blowing it all out like a typhoon.

And then came the real blood, though Zoro's hands moved quickly to combat it.

Zoro took the cook's shoulder and wrapped it several times with one of the strips of his shirt. He tied it securely, tightly, and applied pressure with his palms to keep the blood flow to a minimum. Luckily, the cold temperatures would be of aid as well. All of this was causing the cook significant discomfort, but Zoro at this point didn't care—he just needed to decelerate the bleeding enough to get Sanji moving. The blond's short, misty breaths brushed past his neck, feeling as though they left an invisible mark before being replaced by another, and it made him shiver; not from the cold. It was at this point that he realized he was situated on top of the guy, rather than beside him. His thighs were enveloping the heat of Sanji's torso. At this Zoro hastily shifted off of him, grabbing another strip of clothing as an excuse. He positioned himself on Sanji's side, and then wrapped his shoulder in a double layer. The blood still soaked right through but Zoro kept his palms folded over the wound with determination. He grabbed a third piece and continued the cycle.

Then Sanji's quiet voice sounded. "Is it stopping?"

Zoro kept his hardened gaze at the wound, not meeting the blond's eye. He couldn't anymore—not with all the guilt he was compressed under—making the subtlety of a glance almost a physical impossibility. "Not yet. Getting there."

Sanji nodded and relaxed his head back into the comfort of the snow. It was thick and felt like a natural pillow which insulated his head and body better than the insubstantial, frigid air. His eyelids drooped and his entire body was starting to ploy him into feeling like he was suspended by clouds; not surrounded by thick snow. He felt very light. And rising up to the heavens so abruptly—it caused nausea within him; caused his stomach to flip over and disrupt whatever digestion process he had going; caused the unmistakable ache in his skull to overwhelm him. He immediately recognized these sensations as symptoms of blood loss.

Sanji unearthed the strength to lift his right hand, and instinctively placed it on top of Zoro's dogged ones which still provided a comforting pressure. Those enduring hands flinched but did nothing else. Sanji had decided then that amidst his waning energy; all the strength that was being sapped from his veins—he would make sure its path ended in Zoro. Because even through his temporary pains, more intensely Zoro was the one who ached. Zoro was the one who faced the _genuine_ pain of this moment, who needed his fading strength in return.

But it was also, deep within that moment of implicit wisdom, that the cook's tender gesture made Zoro understand: Sanji had forgiven him.

Could he do the same for himself?

— «»»««» —

The weeks went by. In Montréal, Sanji's arm was still supported in a sling, but the thin slit wound in his shoulder was beginning to mend together underneath the ugly scabbing and bandages. Zeff had forbidden him from cooking, but Sanji never listened. Currently the slender blond was stirring a broth with his right hand under a reliable heat in the evening; a first step preparation for tomorrow's soup special of the day. When he finished up, he set the large pot in their storage fridge and locked it up, making it back to his room languidly.

Zeff had been somewhat appalled and curious when his young cook returned from Ohara Falls with a stabbed shoulder wrapped in bandages. Sanji had explained to him that he'd carelessly slipped on melted snow in the cabin whilst holding a kitchen knife, and subsequently embedded the damn thing in his shoulder when he flattened the wall. Despite this, Zeff was a little suspicious—considering the fact that every good chef knew to _never _to carry a knife sharp point up. And there could be no other position that Sanji would carry it in to receive such a wound. When he posed this question to the blond, the excuse was that polishing it upright whilst carrying it led to those results. It was the story he'd told at the hospital to ward off the severe charges that could so easily be placed upon Zoro for what he'd done. It wasn't like brandishing three fucking swords outdoors was legal, let alone driving one into the shoulder of another man.

Zeff of course didn't believe a damn thing Sanji had spewed out of his culpable little mouth. But he didn't question it. He had more respect for Sanji than that – and he'd take that thought to his grave.

And Sanji was grateful for evading the matter because it allowed him to be alone with his thoughts instead.

It was ten past nine in the evening when Sanji closed the door to his bedroom behind him. His bedroom was...empty, no signs of memories. No framed photos, trinkets, or other sentimentally driven objects; just furniture and meaningless pictures of cheaply printed art on the walls. It was hard to believe that after four years in this country and the three specifically spent in this room, he barely owned anything tangible to show for it, caused by his difficulty to create new memories after they'd become corrupted by their predecessors. He felt as though his existence didn't include living.

And it disgusted him.

Sure, he pretended, he put on an act, but it didn't take a genius to put a mask on.

But the wound in his shoulder; its aches and throbs provided something deeper than existence. It was real. It provided _life_ and true sentimentality. The moment he'd gained it; when that silver blade struck him—_that_ was more real than anything else he'd ever experienced. And when the guilt-ridden swordsman had inwardly grieved on his actions—his faults—_that_ was a genuinely _real_ moment in time. Those actions, those faults, those emotions. All of them served to fuel Sanji's life, to show him what it meant to _feel_ anything but agony and propel him forward.

And his own actions. He still felt his palm resting softly over the swordsman's, slick with his own blood but firm in resignation; depressing so resiliently against his wound so _alive_. His own strength stepping in to restore the swordsman's shattered emotions—that had been a connection of spiritual and abiding energy. A connection of souls.

He had never felt anything like it.

And that _scar._ That immense scar on Zoro's torso which screamed a story; a tale; a memory. Sanji was deeply entranced by it. It haunted his thoughts. What had caused something so terrible? Something so adversely beautiful? What pains and tragedies of the swordsman's past could he truly merge with his own?

His mind wandering back to his bedroom, Sanji glanced over to his desk where his sleek laptop lay in hibernation. He picked it up and set it upon his double-sized bed, opening it up smoothly. He turned it on and waited for it to boot up. When his familiar desktop emerged, he clicked the Google Chrome logo and watched as the browser popped up.

His pale fingertips paused over the keyboard for a moment in comprehension of what he was about to do, before tapping down on the keys slowly in the Google search bar. The letters appeared one by one to create the word: _facebook._ Sanji clicked on the first link, logged in, and guided the little arrow with his finger on the laptop touchpad. He clicked on the search bar and again his long fingers lingered above the keyboard. Curiosity soon took a hold of him, prompting him to type elegantly: _Zorro_.

Was that how he spelled it? Like the Spanish sword wielding outlaw? A short chuckle escaped his throat at this, as he'd recently discovered Zoro's semi-connection to Spain, and not to mention swords. But the results that popped up were overwhelmed by fan groups for the Spanish outlaw Zorro. Figured.

How else could he spell it? One 'r'?

So he typed it in: _Zoro_. Narrowed his search to 'people' and limited that further with the location of Toronto, Ontario. If he didn't get anything for that then surely the man didn't have an account, or it was private. And he wouldn't be surprised at that—Zoro didn't exactly seem the type to get a Facebook account and if he was, he would keep it hidden.

Which was why Sanji's eyes lightened in astonishment after scrolling down the page slightly and spotting the name _Zoro Roronoa._ There was a picture of the man—_the_ very man, his meditation partner, his drinking buddy of sorts—this man, the one whom he'd shared so many confusing yet alluring emotions with. The picture of him was hard to see from the small size of the search results (especially since it looked to be a small group shot) but there was that unmistakable green head of his. That just _had_ to be Zoro.

He clicked on it and was elated to find that the profile was a public one, which meant the very information he wanted would be accessible without having to make an embarrassing friend request. Zoro's profile picture had four people involved; Zoro himself, in the left centre with a cool, content smile and a mug of beer in his left hand. In the centre with him was a shorter, gangly limbed young man with black hair who probably possessed the most innocent, bright smile Sanji had ever witnessed, and sun-kissed skin that looked like it frequently received a lot of...well, sun. His thin noodle arms were wrapped around the shoulders of Zoro and a woman beside him as he also held a half-empty mug of alcohol around Zoro's neck. To the end of this shining young man was a shorter, sexy red-headed woman that immediately caught Sanji's breath. He swooned over her voluptuousness and luminous complexion for about a minute before turning his attention to the very left, to the fourth person that completed the photo. This man was the tallest of the four, and he also had deep black hair like the radiant one before. He had a thickly muscled frame that was simultaneously lean, making him look slightly thinner than Zoro. Tanned, freckled skin that was healthy looking and endearing, while also strong. A big, toothy smile that spread almost as much joy as his fellow dark haired friend. This man had his cheek pressed into Zoro's as he held up his mug to the camera to further express their night of excitement that clearly took place in a club.

It roused a tinge of envy within him—he wanted that closeness.

He nearly choked. Wait, what was he, _jealous? _No, he was simply a little envious that he didn't get to have nights out like that. Very rarely, anyway. And not with friends who looked like they lived and breathed each other's existence.

Sanji leaned back, away from the screen that was the only light source in the darkness of his room. Slightly overwhelmed but still vastly curious, Sanji clicked on Zoro's wall and saw many names above blurbs of text; _Nami __Tänge__, Usopp Tendaji, Luffy Macaco, Ace Portgas, Tony Chopper, Brook Fiedler..._

Zoro however rarely responded to any of them, and if he did it was usually very succinct. A quick '_okay' _or 's_ure'_ to any plans they suggested. Or if it was a no-go, he would type something like: '_no, got work, sorry.'_

Sanji had to laugh at himself for being a culprit of Facebook stalking, and then shrugged it off, scrolling back up to observe Zoro's amount of friends: 164, a modest amount. Then the blond checked out Zoro's information, which not surprisingly, contained barely any information at all—especially anything about himself. But Sanji smiled when his eye caught exactly what he had been looking for from the start.

_Mobile Phone_: _647-221-0259_

— «»»««» —

Heavy panting resonated in the apartment as Zoro finished his fiftieth rep of power lifts, the barbell remaining as sturdy and unshaken as the man wielding it. He pushed upwards and didn't cease mid-push even when he heard the familiar vibration of his cell on the carpeted floor. He then hooked the barbell onto the rack and got up with a healthy exhale. Grabbing a towel from the wall he wiped the sweat from his face, neck and hands and stared down at his phone moving animatedly on the floor. He bent down to retrieve it and frowned when it didn't show the familiarity of a name, but rather an unknown number.

_438-274-5514_

Now who the fuck was this?

He put the phone to his ear and accepted the call. "Hello?"

There was a pause, long enough to prompt Zoro to either repeat himself or hang up in impatience. But before he did, the awaited response came. "Is this Zoro?"

Zoro puckered his brow at that, while also trying to place the recognizable voice. When he couldn't within a casual enough pause, he asked, "Who is this?"

"It's the chef."

Zoro froze. "How did you get my number?"

Sanji's muffled laugh transferred into his ear. "You fuckhead. If you don't want people finding your number, I suggest you make your Facebook page private. Or, I don't know, don't list it."

Zoro narrowed his eyes with a soft smile. "Well aren't you the little stalker." Then they widened at what Sanji had actually said. _Shit! _"Wait, it's not private?"

"Yes, it's completely public you retard." Sanji growled. Did the marimo have poor hearing?

"That bitch Nami—she told me she'd made it private!" he yelled, more to himself than anyone, and rushed to his laptop. "Fuck."

"What, you paranoid I'm going to be the creep that breaks into your house to breathe creepily in your closet? I'm no stalker, you egotist, I did what I had to do to contact you. You sort of just left me there at the hospital. I had to take a fucking cab back to get my car! You're forking over the bucks, pal, or I'm gonna—"

"Fuck," the swordsman cursed, cutting Sanji's words off blatantly. The cook's words were completely lost to him as he searched furiously over his Facebook page that Nami had set up for him. After he'd been so adamant on telling her to make it completely private and unsearchable (actually, he'd been obstinate on getting a profile to begin with), the sneaky girl had lied; probably to help him pick up chicks like she always seemed to be doing, meddling bitch. "Hey, stupid cook, how do I make my profile unsearchable? No, maybe I should just delete it..." Zoro drifted off into his own thoughts again.

Sanji was furious. "Oi, asshole! Are you even listening to me? Man, so insensitive, and what's your problem here? It's not the end of the world."

Without Sanji's help, Zoro managed to figure it out—he was no Facebook whiz, but he wasn't a fucking moron either—and restricted his profile to friends only. Now paying attention to Sanji again, he explained, "I just fucking hate the thing anyway, and with the knowledge that it led a jerk like you to get my number, I definitely needed to do something."

"Fuck you," the blond retorted, miffed. To Sanji, Zoro's words somehow sounded forced. Not like their usual flowing, naturally paced banter. Ignoring it, he went on, "Well, anyways, thanks to you I had to drive home with _one fucking arm_, asshole."

Coming back to the topic at hand, the green-haired man shrunk a little inside with remorse. "Look, if you want an apology for your shoulder, I already said I was sorry—"

"That's not what I want," Sanji's suave voice cut him off. "I told you we would talk about this later, didn't I?"

"So?"

"Well, now is later."

"Your point? What is there to talk about?" Zoro said as he sat down on his workout bench, dragging the towel through his dampened emerald locks.

"_Um_, how about the fact that you drove like twenty inches of steel into my shoulder? That is something that actually _happened._ How many people in this day and age can even say that?"

The guilt was creeping up, but Zoro didn't want to deal with it now. Besides, he could tell Sanji was being deliberately snarky, so the mood still felt light-hearted enough. "Twenty five inches, actually." He smirked.

"Why don't you marry your swords already, bloodthirsty freak."

Zoro just shook his head, and before he could retort, there was a low sigh on the other end of the line.

"You're such an asshole. Here I am coming to you to tell you I'm not mad and that you don't have to feel guilty, and all you want to do is ignore me. Serves me right for being considerate. Jerk."

Zoro shrugged as he exhaled into his response. "You're sounding like such a girl."

"And there you go again, covering up with insults," Sanji discerned, before continuing, "I'm not being a girl, Zoro, I'm being serious. I called because I want you to know it's alright."

Zoro felt the flicker, for a split second, of a huge weight being lifted off of his shoulders right then and there, but chose to ignore it; it returned, pressing down again, leaving him barely any room to breathe. "Why are you telling me this?"

Sanji's didn't hesitate. "Because...I know you need to hear it."

Zoro didn't respond, dragging rough fingers over his brow and through his hair. How did this guy _know_? "Why?" he asked, for lack of anything better to say.

"Do I need to repeat myself? _It's alright_. You don't have to worry about it. I...understand. Why you did that—why you went blank. It's perfectly alright. I get it," the blond man babbled. "I was going out of line. I provoked you—that whole weekend, I was trying too damn hard to..." he drifted off, pausing to regain his thoughts, as if to prevent himself from saying something he would regret. "I was just trying to understand you."

Zoro growled at that. This was getting too weird...too intimate. It wasn't a conversation two men were supposed to have. "Yeah, well, do me a solid and stop. We barely know each other, you know—what gives you the right to understand me?"

Silence on the other end. It was evident that the blond was striving to be careful with his words. "I don't know," he finally answered, and then he inhaled audibly, sharply, as if about to explain why; why he deserved an insightful pathway into Zoro's soul. But he gave this up, repeating, "I don't know."

Even though Zoro felt he innately knew what the cook was trying to say, he responded heatedly, "You don't know?" But then he sighed and calmed himself down. After all, _Sanji_ was the one who should be yelling. "Doesn't matter. Anyway, for...letting me know all that, uh...thanks. And...sorry, really, about it all."

"It's okay. My shoulder's healing up nicely, by the way. You could never do enough damage to knock it out completely, shithead."

Zoro whistled at this, going along with the flowing change in atmosphere. "Oh, really? Well I would love to test you on that, damn cook," he comfortably shot, enjoying that the awkwardness of their previous conversation was now over and they had returned to their normal banter.

Sanji laughed heartily on the other end. "It's a deal."

— «»»««» —

That Friday happened to be New Year's Eve, and Zoro was luckily spared of work on a clear night when it was thus quickly arranged that a club expedition was in order after the countdown. The participants: Luffy, Nami, Usopp and himself. Ace's presence was a possibility but it looked like he was going to be working overtime at the bar, it was New Year's Eve after all, which was thoroughly unfortunate for him. They could do without Ace for a night, though. Even if the guy lit up a party like white light in a dark room. Then again, so did his younger brother, if not more so—scratch that, _undoubtedly_ more so—so none of them could complain. It probably meant less trouble for them all, anyway. They had all promised to make it up to Ace another night.

In consequence, there Zoro was; loud music booming in his ears, sweaty bodies surrounding him entirely, the smell of smoke with a hint of weed, and flashing lights flickering throughout his vision like perpetually exploding bombs. He took a swig of his beer as he sat relaxed next to Usopp at the bar. The skinny, lightly browned African had flushed cheeks as he'd attempted to boost his ego by slyly challenging the older man to an undeclared drinking contest. Every time Zoro ordered another beer, Usopp was hasty to refill his own. He'd lost the minute he started.

"How're you and Kaya doing?" Zoro conversed, taking a loose sip from the cool glass.

Usopp set his glass down with a loud clank and a satisfied exhale. "We're great, our three year anniversary in is like, a month. We've been thinking about planning a trip to Europe for it."

Zoro whistled. "Now that's going all out."

Usopp shrugged sluggishly. "Hey, she brought it up."

The bigger man smirked at him. "It's not like the expenses will be an issue, either."

Usopp laughed loudly; always a jovial sound full of genuine glee. Then he nudged Zoro indicatively. "What can I say, Zoro, I got lucky."

Zoro smiled gently at his friend's good fortune, before turning his gaze back down to his drink to stare at his own discoloured reflection. "You love her?"

At this Usopp's glazed eyes turned to Zoro in wonderment. Then they softened and he turned away. "Yes, very much."

Strong fingers gripped around the glass, on the verge of shattering it whole. "Then," Zoro spoke to his companion very, very seriously, "Take good care of her."

Usopp's eyes locked on Zoro's profile, which didn't turn to face him, and he allowed a soft smile of mixed emotions. "I will," he said tenderly.

It wasn't long after their conversation that a wild nineteen year old broke their ensuing silence. Arms wrapped around both of their necks tightly and they glanced back at the brilliance of a luminescent smile.

"Usopp! Zoro! Come see, Nami's breaking her record tonight! Fifteen wallets so far! _Fifteen!_" Luffy announced loudly in their ears to override the booming music, but he ended up nearly busting their eardrums.

Usopp at this point was wincing visibly at the ear intrusion. "Mah, Luffy! Stop yelling, we hear you. Fifteen, you say?" he said, his interest piqued.

"Yeah, she said she's going for thirty tonight!" Luffy exclaimed excitedly. Then he pouted and spoke with a whine, "Though she's grinding with a lot of guys to get them."

"That's nothing new," Zoro cut in after a gulp of alcohol. "That witch is going to get caught sooner or later. I don't know what she's thinking. She'll get banned."

The gangly youth was now tugging at Usopp's arm, prompting him to come with him, "Come _on_, Usopp, let's go! You too, Zoro!"

Usopp practically fell off of his barstool. "Alright already! I'm coming!"

Luffy smiled brightly and then turned to Zoro expectantly.

"I'll meet you guys soon, just wanna finish up my beer," he responded, holding up his mug indicatively.

Luffy's smile intensified vibrantly, if that was even possible. "Okay, we'll be right over there!" he pointed towards a far corner of the club, then zoomed off with Usopp in tow, who was crying for Luffy to slow down and stop ripping his arm out of its socket.

Zoro shook his head and chuckled to himself amidst another swig; he was almost done drinking anyway. As he dipped his chin down to support it with his palm, his eye caught something fantastic and horrible and _impossible_ all mixed into one. He nearly fell backwards in his seat. The loud music that used to be so deafening had swiftly become background and ambient; those flashing lights like bombs became insignificant flecks in his peripheral. His heart stopped—everything just _froze_.

Because there on the corner area of the bar table, was Kuina. _His_ Kuina.

_Oh my god, am I going insane? How wasted am I?_

He fumbled to put his beer down, nearly knocking it over in the process and stood, his eyes never leaving her. She was the only thing in focus; everything and everyone else were just fuzzy outlines sustaining the heart of a work of art. She was vivid, she was glowing, vibrant; she was like an angel brought down from the heavens. Was that what she was? Was he really seeing her, or had his mind finally snapped?

Zoro shifted through the crowds unconsciously but desperately, not even caring about the drunken cries of protest passing him by. He just had to get to her. He could feel the tears brimming and felt stifled by the growing ache in his chest. And then she laughed, as someone dragged her away, and they vanished into the crowd. His voice caught in his throat.

_Kuina..._he wanted to say; to shout – _Kuina!_

And suddenly he was shoving, pushing, madly ploughing his way through the crowd. "Kuina!" he yelled; reality was gone. "Kuina!"

But even though he had frozen the surroundings in his own mind, they would never linger for him. Never. And she was thus lost in the crowd. He stood there loosely as clubbers hollered and screamed around him, bumping into his shoulders and arms, holding their drinks up high and dancing without a care in the world. He stood there with a lost expression on his face; lost; because he felt as though he had lost _her_. Again.

His eyes focused as the veracity of the moment hit him. He hadn't seen her. He _hadn't seen her._ That was an illusion, a delusion created by his mind. He was tired, maybe had a little too much to drink, was under a lot of stress...anything – all of it could explain why he'd seen her there. Zoro came back to himself. The Zoro that was meant to be here, in this club with his friends, _far far away_ from hallucinations like these, from distorted hopes that were _always_ crushed.

But he just wanted her back. _God-fucking-dammit_ he just wanted to have her in his arms again.

With a detached expression, Zoro turned back and headed for the bar. He needed another round, that much was certain. After twenty minutes and four bottles, he'd calmed himself down, luckily in the right amount of time before Luffy emerged from the never ending crowd.

He had that childish pout plastered on his face. "Zoro! You didn't come! And Nami has a surprise for you. Come on!"

Zoro stood up a little sluggishly, and that meant that he had _really_ drunk too much too quickly. He waved at Luffy compliantly and allowed the skinny boy to drag him into the cluster of movement and sweaty bodies. Luffy took him to his destination in record time—the guy really was agile enough to weasel his way around in crowds.

There Nami was, leaning on a stair railing with a happy expression. Her purse was unusually bulged, from wallets that weren't her own no less, and Zoro had to shake his head. Usopp was with her as well, his multicoloured bandana and reggae-style clothing a dead give away. But then the African boy moved to the side at their arrival, revealing a thin, delicately beautiful Japanese girl dressed in a white loose tank top with pink and orange floral designs that dissipated as they travelled from bottom to top. Her skinny legs were clad in torn, stylish jeans. She had short cropped jet black hair, edgy and unruly, and her perfectly shaped eyes were outlined with thick rectangular glasses that gave her character. Her skin was so perfectly sun-kissed and she had subtle, featherlike freckles that completed her beauty. And Zoro realized; he hadn't seen Kuina—he had seen _her._

But _fuck_, he still wanted to kiss her right there and then. Zoro held his breath.

"Zoro! There you are!" Nami exclaimed, taking him by the arm and dragging him closer to the group. "I'd like you to meet someone." She gesticulated to the young Japanese girl. "This is Tashigi, she's from Kyoto. She's into kendo and even has a sword collection, too!"

Nami was at this point trying a little too hard, nudging Zoro's side encouragingly. His eyes locked onto the Japanese girl's intensely, and she smiled confidently in response.

She held out her hand, strong and purposeful. Professional-like, as if greeting a possible employer. It was kind of cute.

"Domo." She greeted.

Her voice—it was _so similar_. Tashigi, was it? It couldn't be, she was so _like_ her. He reluctantly held out his hand, and when flesh met on flesh, he reeled. She _felt_ like her. Zoro's dazed expression must have looked strange as he responded, "Zoro."

Then one of those deceivingly delicate arms wrapped around his neck, and he froze; her breath on his neck thawed him until he melted. Her arm curled completely around him, she stood on her toes to bring herself to his ear. With their mutual native tongue, she spoke loudly over the music, "We can skip the introductions, if you want." Her voice was so seductive and low, and _strong_, and yet also a bit dorky, and he felt himself sinking into her small frame. Her lips were so close to his upper neck; Zoro felt nothing but their tenderness and suppleness.

She was drunk too, he knew she was, but how could he possibly resist...

In his drunken emotional state, to Zoro, _this was Kuina._ He couldn't hold back any longer. He pulled his head back to face her and dipped down hungrily to those soft, pink lips, connecting them to his own. She smiled into the eager kiss, both of them not caring that there were three observers with cunning smirks.

"Do I have a rare gift or what?" Nami said to Luffy and Usopp, who nodded in awe. Zoro had _never_ reacted like this to any of their hook-ups before. She nodded in satisfaction while she observed the rare connection.

And Luffy just had to comment. "Look at them go!"

At this Nami and Usopp realized how intrusive they were being—even if they _were _in a club where dozens of people made out in public, and even fucked on the dance floor—but this was something special that Nami knew she had to drag her two friends and herself away from. "Come on, idiots, let's go. I still need ten more wallets to make thirty."

And they were off. Not a minute later, Zoro and Tashigi were rushing through the crowds and towards the exit.

— «»»««» —

His apartment door swung open and slammed into the wall fiercely as two connected bodies slinked inside. The door shut impatiently with Zoro's foot and their energized forms rushed out of the entrance hallway. Their kisses were a hungry mess of tongue and saliva; both of them contributed to peeling away their clothes, piece by piece. By the time they entered Zoro's bedroom, they were half naked, and dripping with _desire_. Each for a separate reason though a little voice in the back of Zoro's mind told him this was absolutely _wrong_. Wrong and unfair.

But fuck, she looked so much like Kuina. He wanted her so bad. He wanted those legs around his waist with his name on her lips. His subconscious was conquering even as he screamed against it, blanketing all rationale; he wanted her to be Kuina _so bad_ that she became her. This girl, whoever she was, in his current mind frame, became Kuina. And he simply couldn't turn off the flurry of love and desperation tearing him to pieces in the best and worst possible way.

He sat her down on the side of his bed and unclipped her white lacy bra, revealing small but modest bare breasts—like _hers_. He cupped them with strong hands, and as she laughed he moved them down her torso, to her ribs, hips, and finally those unbuckled jeans. She beckoned him to rip them off, and so he did, along with her laced panties, throwing them across the room excitedly. Zoro placed his hands back onto her curvy hips with hungry eyes, and she moaned when he touched her in between. His eyes lingered as thin ribs showed through when her spine arched, and his pants began to feel very tight.

Fuck, it'd been a while.

Zoro, his jeans already unbuckled, slipped them off and his erection hit bare air. He pounced on her, kissing her lips, neck, breasts, shoulders, torso—_everything._ She was _everything_ Kuina ever was, and she also wasn't. But for what she wasn't Zoro didn't care. He'd been hurting too long to care. He simply wanted to take her for all she was worth. No matter how much he would regret this later, he couldn't _miss_ this; because it was closest he would ever feel to her again, to moments like these; when they made love like this in the comfort of the night, in each other's arms, with the deceptive belief that it would be everlasting. _Fuck, _he longed for her too much to miss out even a cheap fragment of what they had.

With these thoughts and images in his dulled mind, Zoro entered her; this stranger so close yet so far from the soul mate in his mind; the first person he'd had sex with ever since. She called out to him, spoke his name, so like her, but so unlike her simultaneously. Kuina had been a silent lover, even if he could swear that her voice had been very real, very present, their minds easily connected in moments of passion like this. This woman was louder, but not unbearably. Nails clawed into his back, legs enveloped around his own; Zoro felt the underlying guilt below the pleasure, but didn't cease. He moved into her rhythmically, lovingly, _desperately._

But he didn't love this woman. She was beautiful in her own respect, but she was merely a replacement; someone to temporarily fill the void. She didn't mean a _thing_ to him. It was cruel and unfair, so irrefutably _fucked up_ in his conscious mind, but his subconscious loved this woman, wanted to fuck this woman—unable to differentiate or redefine a blurred line.

He _loved_ Kuina. So how could he hurt her like this? How could he betray her?

And yet he continued to plough into this stranger so desperately. It was disgusting and brutally sordid. But _god_, he loved her. Kuina. He loved her so urgently and yearned for her twice as much.

— «»»««» —

He was breathing heavily as buildings and streets dashed by in a blur. Zoro ran for what felt like an eternity. His sprints persisted even as his lungs burned, even as his eyes were watering, as his throat was raw, as his legs stumbled, and as his heart clenched, the frantic worries of his soul and mind squeezing it until it would burst. He searched every street; every alley. Where _was_ she?

And he saw it. Saw her. In an alley, broken; bloody; mangled; torn. He found her. He'd found her but he'd _lost_ her. Fuck, he'd _lost_ her.

He took slow, disbelieving steps towards the body. Slow steps as if he could turn back time. As if he could undo this travesty. But he couldn't—he didn't have that power. He was _weak_, for not protecting her. For not being there. For telling her to leave – _oh god. _For he knew she'd defended herself like a true warrior, like a true swordswoman...but if he'd only just _been_ _there._

Oh fuck, she was _gone_. Just gone. Was life that fickle? Even when he loved her so absolutely? Was it fair that they had overfilled each other's hearts with such tremendous _life, _such unearthly exuberance, only for it all—_all of it_; every last drop—to be drained by death, _ripped apart_ by death? Was Zoro simply destined to _lose every fucking person close to him_—like they had never existed, never lived to make him happy?

Zoro covered her half-naked body with his sweater; cupped her bloodied, wounded cheeks with his own hands, so full of life when she was drained of it. He wished he could give it her, give it all back. But all that was left was death. Zoro let the tears fall as he pressed his forehead to hers and allowed himself to faintly sob, but so full of torture and sorrow. He grieved quietly but with immense anguish that night. The night he'd lost the last person important to him. The absolute _most _important person.

He kissed her forehead lightly, feathery soft, and held his lips there. Closed his eyes. Stroked her matted hair; hair that was slick with blood and sweat and grime. It was still so silky, so smooth in his mind, as he remembered brushing his fingers through it so many nights before. He pulled his face back a few inches and let out a choked sob as he didn't see her like he did in his memories. She was swollen; beaten; bruised; cold—_fuck_ she was _everything_ she should _never_ be.

"_Kuina_..." he strangled out with shuddery breaths. "_Oh my god, Kuina...I'm so sorry..._" He shut his eyes to block out her silence, her listless, pained gaze. "_I_—" Zoro cut himself off with a tender kiss to her bruised lips. They were so frigidly cold and empty. When he broke away, he cried out to her again, hoping—_praying_—that she would hear him. _Please_ hear him, please be listening.

"_Please forgive me. I'm so sorry..."_

Zoro opened his eyes. His cheeks were moist. His heart was heavy. He shifted over in bed and realized that his arms were wound tightly around warm flesh, that his chest was pressed protectively against a smooth back. Soft, silky short hair, black and shiny. Zoro lifted his hand to touch it longingly, and when he stroked through it, there was a dissatisfying twinge of unfamiliarity. And when his partner moaned sleepily, like Kuina rarely did, he flinched back, separating himself from the stranger.

Zoro sat up in the bed, sheets wrapped around his midsection modestly as he clenched his brow with his fingers. He remembered—this woman, this wasn't Kuina. This was the woman he'd betrayed her with. This was the woman he'd been unfair to in return.

He felt fucking _sick_.

Zoro lifted his muscled nakedness out of bed gently, and began to dress as quietly as he could. Luckily he had a variety of clothes on the ground so he didn't need to deal with the clamour of drawers opening. As he was about to exit the room to get his shoes and jacket, he shot a glance back at the woman in his bed. She held the sheets over her bare form laxly, a calm expression upon her face. How many times had he seen Kuina like that, too?

The thought urged him to depart, and soon after putting on his shoes and jacket, he was gone into the early morning.

— «»»««» —

Zoro returned to his apartment hours later, nerves wracking his bones as he attempted to mentally figure out just what to _say_ to this woman. She had known it was a one night stand, right? She'd known he'd never fuck someone that quickly if it hadn't been a one-shot deal? Of course, what he knew she wasn't aware of was that Zoro never degraded himself with such trivial things as casual sex—he wasn't like that, even with all the women that threw themselves at him. This woman, Tashigi, he remembered, would never know that the real reason he'd fucked her was because she looked like his dead girlfriend, and because he'd been sloshed enough to do it.

She would _never_ know the monstrous amount of guilt he felt.

But when he returned, the apartment was empty. He began to think that his issues were solved with the simplicity of the act—of the obviousness that it had been a one night stand—when his heart sank at the slip of paper on his nightstand. It read in Japanese characters:

_Had fun. Hope you did too. Call me again sometime? 647-221-8119_

Zoro sighed, keeping a frustrated grip on his emerald locks. He held the small piece of notebook paper in his palm; fingers flinching in a hesitant instinct to crumple it, but instead he placed it back on the nightstand gently, under his digital clock. He then stalked towards the bathroom for a much needed shower.

— «»»««» —

It was Sunday, Sanji's day off, and today he'd decided to enjoy himself outdoors in Montréal since the weather was decent—cold, but sunny. Well, he had come out for a specific reason, actually, because even though Zeff allotted him Sundays, he was always making him run out to do chores. Right now the old man had given him a list of groceries, and Sanji had a few other things to browse for himself in the more popular shopping districts, like Sainte-Catherine Street. He could always use a new dress shirt or tie. Sanji knew he was weak to those kinds of things but how else was he going to impress the ladies?

Currently he was inside the store _Mexx_, clad in dark, clean cut jeans and a dark grey thigh length jacket in a trench coat style. He was in the middle of purchasing two handsome dress shirts, some jeans, and a stylish scarf when his cell phone went off. He dug the vibrating device out of his pocket while curling his lips sheepishly at the male clerk who simply continued to scan the tags on his purchases.

"Âllo?" he answered, and when Zeff's gruff voice responded he shifted the cell phone into his shoulder and ear while handing the clerk his credit card. He asked his mentor bluntly, "Qu'est-ce que j'ai oublié maintenant?" — _What did I forget now?_

"String bean, find a quiet spot, I need to ask you something important," Zeff stated seriously. He usually spoke in English when there was something weighty to discuss. Sanji never really knew why – it was just something he'd come to gather about the old fart.

At this Sanji frowned, punched in his PIN and waited for the confirmation. It went through successfully and his receipt printed out. The employee ripped it off and put it in the bag before handing Sanji his purchases.

"Merci, bonne journée," the clerk smiled a little too forcedly. — _Thank you, have a good day._

Sanji nodded at him on his way out. "Vous aussi." — _You too._

He was met with cold air when he exited the store and began walking on the snowed over sidewalk. "Do I _really_ need to find a quiet spot, or can you tell me right now, old man? I'm kind of in the middle of the street as we speak."

"Find a bench, sit down, relax. You're not going to like my question," the old chef demanded.

Sanji, of course, didn't comply with this, deliberately passing by a perfectly empty bench as he lined up at a cross section, waiting for the walking signal. "Can't this _wait?_"

Zeff grunted. "No, it can't, I have a French lawyer on the other line and he's waiting as it is. Do you know what I'm getting at now?"

Sanji clenched his teeth and breathed out mistily into the frigid air. His expression was troubled as he hastily made his way across the street, barely mindful of the civilians or cars surrounding him. "They've got a date set, don't they?"

"One year, next January. Still a while away, but they need your help and want to get it ASAP."

Sanji paused, absorbing the information, before shaking his head, replying, "Old man, I can't—"

But Zeff interrupted him, "Why not, you shitty brat? You've seen more than your fair share of all the shit this man has done, all the _shit_ he's put you through. And you want him to get away with it? Why?"

Sanji took a deep breath. "I can't talk about this with you right now."

"They need to know soon if you'll testify or not, there's a lot of preparation involved and you'll be a major help to their defence case," Zeff expanded. "So?"

Sanji was explicit. "No. I can't." He cut Zeff's ensuing protests off with a final declaration; solid and definite, "I won't. I told them long ago that I wouldn't have anything to do with this anymore. I find it hard to believe that I'm the key here, anyway. I'm not evidence, I'm just hearsay. Why put everything at stake for that? They must have gathered enough evidence to slam him without me by now."

"How would you know what they've been through trying to keep this fucker behind bars? It's not like you've ever chosen to make their jobs easy." Then Zeff sighed on the other end, clearly agitated and maybe a little regretful by his outburst. "You're so fucking stubborn, you damn brat. I just wish I knew _why_. Think it over, at least. You've got some time, but try not to fucking dawdle." Sanji didn't respond to that as he manoeuvred around two street goers, waiting for the geezer to continue as he knew he would. "By the way, shitty eggplant, pick up some more ginger. That wasn't on the list."

Sanji nodded. "Got it, shitty old man. Don't keel over before I get back."

He took the phone away from his ear and could faintly hear the muffled shouts of the old man before cutting them off with a distinctive _click._ The blond frowned, miffed as he placed the phone in his coat pocket, elegantly drifting back into the lively movement and bustle of the streets.

— «»»««» —


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: **Wow I suck at updating even when I have completed chapters to update. Wow. Do you guys hate me yet. No but actually I've been working on finishing Born Unto Trouble instead - so my work on EM had to be cast aside for a bit. Should be back to it soon, and that western'll also be finished, finally. I have no excuses anymore.

— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

**Chapter Seven:**

"_Karuna: _

Compassion; sympathy;

the aspiration to find a way to be truly helpful to oneself and others."

— «»‖≡‖≡‖«» —

Her feathery soft touches oozed through fingers so thin and strong; delicate in moments like these but breathtakingly robust in the midst of battle. She stroked those unearthly fingers through his hair, he breathed in deeply, in a state of nirvana as he dipped down to press soft kisses to her neck. Her slight arms wrapped around him, never letting go, as he slipped his hands under her shirt, caressing the velvety flesh underneath like a treasure, precious and prized. In the depths of a starry summer night in the city of Tokyo, Zoro kissed his lover passionately, smoothly; so full of love and tenderness that his being felt like it transcended into something else, something beautiful and ethereal and delicate. When with her, he transformed into the purest form of man, the tarnish of a gradual life disintegrated away, and revealed the authenticity within, the soul he was born with. The soul he was meant to love with.

Under the pan-tiled roof of an isolated garden gazebo, they lay sprawled in the midst of the warm night, their connection serving to distance them from their surroundings. During their time together, nights like these, they never usually made any noise other than deep, rhythmic breathing that was their language, spoken and understood by only each other. They were near-silent throughout; didn't need to make noise, for it only overpowered the beating of their hearts. The voices of their souls could not be overshadowed, as that would make the unique connection entirely meaningless. They needed to hear and feel themselves _soar_.

Sometimes she would whisper his name; sometimes he would whisper hers back. And always, always after, they would share their voices, their words.

This night was different. This night, the two lovers made a second promise, wrapped in each other's natural warmth.

"_What am I going to do with you, when I reach the top?_" Kuina had asked him.

Zoro scoffed, kissing the back of her shoulder playfully. "_When you reach the top? You'll have to beat me first, of course._" Strangely this night, Kuina remained silent at that. "_What's wrong?_"

"_You're right_," she said softly, uncharacteristically weakened, "_I'll never accomplish my goals the way I am._"

Zoro frowned, setting his chin in the crook of her naked shoulder and neck, his arms wrapped around her protectively. "_What do you mean; the way you are?_"

"_I've been noticing lately...I'm not as strong as I remember. You overpower me so easily now. When we were kids, I always beat you—always. But then, when we were sixteen, you took me down in Okinawa, remember that?_" she paused, staring out at her hand sprawled out in front of her so delicately on the wooden planks of the gazebo. She didn't appreciate its frailness. Her next words were spoken in a lost whisper, "_That was the moment I realized my strength wouldn't last forever._"

Zoro hugged her tighter around the waist and laid soft kisses against the nape of her neck. "_I also had pretty big incentive to beat you. The promise, remember?_" he murmured into her ear.

Kuina gave a genuine laugh. "_The promise we made when we were fourteen. If you beat me you could kiss me. I'd never seen you train as hard as you did in those two years leading up to that._"

Zoro laughed in slight embarrassment. "_I won, didn't I? You should be glad I did. Otherwise we might not have happened._"

Kuina smiled, even if in the spooning position they were in Zoro couldn't appreciate the sight. "_I'm so happy you did._" Then her expression sank,"_But it's not just with you—everyone else at the dojo, too. I'm having a harder time keeping up, they're all getting stronger and I'm just—I'm just falling behind._" There was a crack in her voice, but her shuddery words went on, "_You men, you're naturally stronger. No matter how much I try, no matter how much I rise, I'll always be weaker. Always._" She grasped Zoro's strong hand and clenched it close to her chest, noting their contrast in size. She squeezed his hand tightly and the sob in her tone was now fully awakened. "_Zoro, I don't want to fall behind. I don't want to be weak."_

Zoro's eyes saddened as the girl in his arms wept, her shoulders shaking with a pain hidden deep within her heart. "_Kuina,_" he said, turning her around to face him. She stared at him with watery brown eyes that he wasn't accustomed to seeing. He lifted his hand to the side of her face and stroked it with the back of his fingers, delicately, like a woman would. Then he ran that feminine touch through her short, silky raven hair, and kissed her forehead tenderly. His forehead replaced his lips there, and he delivered a powerful gaze.

He said to her, "_You will never be weak. Even if physically your body can't keep up, I have never met a person with a stronger spirit than you. I have a deep respect for women because they endure more in their hearts than men ever will be able to,_" he put his hand on her heart to further enhance his words."_You're strong, Kuina. You're the strongest and most beautiful person I know. I wouldn't love anyone less. I feel like_ I_ can't keep up with _you_._"

Her lower lip trembled and her eyes overflowed, tears streaming down her cheeks, "_Zoro._" She pressed her lips to his, kept them there; they didn't create any movement to deepen the kiss. Simply left them there, frozen in time. She slowly separated herself from his lips, her eyes closed and her mouth parted in the intensity of the moment. Then she whispered, her thumb caressing his cheek, "_If we combine our strengths—my spirit with your body—we can reach the top together. Can you promise me that?_"

Zoro smiled brightly and kissed her passionately, the smile still on his lips. They moved like two waves crashing into each other. The kiss was smooth, swaying, and passionate. Then he broke and stared into her eyes, absorbing her staggering spirit shining through. "_I promise you, we'll be strong together. Forever._"

Forever.

Brown eyes opened with an ocean overlaying them, uncontained and uncontrolled. Zoro wiped the tears from his cheeks and rolled over in bed. He remembered that night so vividly, even in his dreams it felt so real. Feeling her so close to him in his arms, feeling like it was real; it created a hysterical urge within him to hold her warmth like that again to fend off the cold that spread over him, the frigidity he felt every night. He was so lonely missing her so dearly. He couldn't see his future anymore, couldn't remember what used to keep him grounded and driven. He didn't feel like himself anymore – hadn't in a long time.

She wasn't ever coming back. This was the frigidity of truth. One of the truths he could never run away from. Impermanence. Nothing lasts. Not even the delusion of self.

If that were true, his pain was destined to go away. But only in death—and he desperately didn't want to forget, didn't want their love to be shoved under a rug like that.

Zoro sat up and placed his palm on the empty spot of his bed. He clenched the sheets into a tight fist, entangling them as if to satisfy the tortures of his soul. He lifted his knees to his chest and rested his forehead on them, encircling arms around them for security. Imagining those arms were hers.

After some minutes, Zoro lifted his head and rested his cheek on one knee, staring at the digital clock's bright lettering which read: 12:37. He reached over and stopped his hand in front of it, sighing and lowering his head, knowing that what he was thinking was wrong. Then, leaving all reservations behind, Zoro lifted the clock and grasped the thin piece of paper beneath. He picked up his cell phone, using its glow to read the numbers, and punched them in one by one, each number feeling a step closer to hell.

Placing the phone to his ear, Zoro waited only three rings before someone picked up.

"Hello?" her feminine voice answered, slightly tired.

Zoro responded in Japanese so she might know who he was precisely, "It's me."

She also conversed in Japanese, sounding quite flustered. "W-who is this?"

"Ah," he said breathily. "It's Zoro, I don't know if you remember...we were both pretty drunk, and—"

Tashigi sounded like she was blushing embarrassedly already. "And I left you my number, I remember...I'm very sorry, Zoro-san, I shouldn't have become so drunk. I don't drink a lot and when I do, I sort of...w-well, I lose my inhibitions. A lot, and—"

Zoro cut off her babbling. "That's alright, don't worry about it." He paused, rubbing his forehead. "So, um...I called because—well, you left me your number and told me to call again so...I mean if you don't want to..."

"I may loosen up when I drink, but...I never just do, well, t-that with just anyone. To be honest, I met Nami-chan before New Year's. At the spa she works in, and we got to talking and...she told me about you, and..."

So Tashigi's presence at the club _hadn't_ been just a fluke. Damn. Nami again. Always getting the better of him. Shit. This girl was completely different sober. She was shy and almost innocent, and it made him wonder: could he really take advantage of her like this? Especially when she was clearly looking for more than just casual hook-ups? He really was going to hell for this, his own personal hell, because this was not like him at _all._ What the fuck was he thinking?

"I see," he responded. "Listen, it doesn't have to go any further than this, I—"

"No!" the girl suddenly interrupted. Then she gave a breathy chuckle. "No, I mean, I enjoyed it, the other night. A lot." There was an awkward pause as Zoro didn't quite know how to reply to that. Tashigi went on, "I-if you want, I can meet you over there."

His head lifted, brown eyes wandering to the digital clock on his nightstand. "How soon?" he asked.

"Um," she pondered. "Twenty to thirty minutes."

"Okay," the green haired man acknowledged. "I'll leave the door open, just come right in."

"Got it," she responded, and then there was a beat. "I'm...glad you called me back."

Zoro was developing a headache. This was _wrong, wrong, wrong!_ Listening to the girl, so sincere and genuine—he felt like such a scumbag. "Yeah. Me too."

She laughed softly on the other end. "See you soon, then?"

"Yeah..." Zoro drifted, his mind overflowing with guilt. "Bye."

He ended the call and threw the phone on the other side of the bed, burying his face in his hands. What was he doing? This was a downward spiral that was tearing his identity up from within, but why couldn't he stop? He was so tempted; wanted to do anything he physically could to be closer to Kuina, when in reality it threw him much farther away from her and himself. And to hurt someone else in the process?

This was beyond fucked up.

— «»»««» —

He remembered: the sea had been lively as a young blond boy sat crossed legged and watched the water lap and froth and swirl. The winds were strong and droplets rained over him like a light coating of mist. He relished in this magnificent aroma—the salty freshness of the North Sea.

They didn't get to come here as much as he'd liked, but it was practically a tradition by now and when they did, it lit up his soul like the sun.

Sanji lay down on his side in bed, his hand pillowing his cheek and his blue eyes awake yet dazed and full of dreams and hopes. He remembered how his mother used to sit beside him on the beach, her long fingers scanning across lines of large text in his favourite book. Whenever she read the words to him here, he always pictured her voice to be the ocean's mother, too.

The book was small and frayed—an overlooked, dusty old book about pirates and sailors discovering a cook's paradise, a sea in which all currents met and every species of fish flourished. A sea which promised complete freedom and bliss—a detachment from the sins and sorrows of a pirate's life. A sea called All Blue.

A myth which was based off of tales, and tales which were based off of true experiences. Provoking a chain reaction of hopes and dreams that the mythical sea was tangible—made for him to search for, dream for, and eventually find.

For as long as Sanji could remember, he had always been this kind of dreamer; a sincere escapist at heart, his mind in the clouds. He was the type who persisted to have an ambition, an aspiration soaring higher than the demons of his earth could ever reach. A dream which kept him living, a dream which he was indebted to, for it had saved his wavering life in times of great darkness, in times of great shame. Those times in which he deemed himself too unworthy of living, too tarnished to even be considered human anymore that he would rather let his spirit wander, to linger on earth and find that ocean. That sense of ethereal bliss.

"_Mama, penses-tu c'est genial?"_ he would always ask her. —Mom, do you think it's real?

She would laugh and ruffle his hair. He'd never forget her soft, soothing laugh. _"Bien sûr, mon grand. Et tu vais trouver, non?" _—Of course, my big boy. And you're going to find it, right?

He'd been enthused, projecting himself in a sailboat, cutting the sea worldwide, scouring the earth's oceans at all ends. _"Oui!"_ he'd shouted, determined and naïve.

Just a damn kid.

Back in the present, lying on his bed in the process of lofting into a slumber, Sanji gave a short, soft chuckle. Reminiscing about his younger self and a dream that still shined through today more brilliantly than any of the darkness it had battled in the past.

It was a myth, a children's tale, he knew that now. The realization had come with adulthood and the harsh realities of life. But he still wanted to find it—that sense of peace and bliss the child in him associated with it. That boundless happiness. Sanji let his eyes droop shut with a soft smile as all of his features relaxed.

His All Blue.

— «»»««» —

Sanji let the door of cabin twenty two creak open and he stepped inside. He placed his things down with a wince—his shoulder was still very sore—and removed his boots and coat, shaking the snow out of them. He cursed when frigid moisture invaded his warm socks, unravelling all the hard work his boots had done to protect them. That was always so annoying. Ignoring the discomfort of his feet, the slender blond strode inside with his bags and set them inside the living space. Clad in jeans and a loose ash-brown pullover that swallowed his slender frame, Sanji scratched his head and turned around.

He sauntered into the main hallway and turned, his hand casually bent in preparation of opening the fusuma. He pulled across gently, leaving just enough room for him to peek inside. And there the moss-head was, sitting lotus style directly away from him, deep in meditation. Seeing him so calm and entrenched in his concentration, it provoked Sanji to slide himself into the room quietly and sit next to the man, knees almost touching. He took a side glance at Zoro's loosened features, his jaw contrastingly strong in absorption, his lips parted so subtly it took Sanji a moment to realize they were open at all.

Sanji lifted his feet over his thighs, setting himself into the lotus position; a position which his flexibility called for. He straightened his back, but also relaxed it, and let his arms fall on his legs softly. Finally, Sanji let his eyes close naturally, and concentrated on his breathing. Minutes lofted by and the blond was beginning to feel his body melt into the process; his breathing becoming more than simple instinct—becoming an anchoring method which allowed his mind to wander, allowed his soul to soar. This was the first time in months he'd been able to feel like this. Listening to his breath, listening to the pulsation of his heart, feeling himself _exist._

Sanji's parted lips relinquished the soft sigh from within his lungs. He breathed. In and out. All tension evaporated from muscle, all anxiety filtered out of him. And all that was left was tranquility and life. Life as it should always be.

He let himself soar.

Twenty minutes later, Zoro's soul climbed back into his body and he opened his eyes. He had been aware of someone's presence beside him, but only now, out of his trance, did he realize who it was, exactly. He turned his head towards the man and caught sight of thick bandages underneath the neckline of his shirt. At this he turned his gaze towards the blond's face. Relaxed, but deep in contemplation. Yes, the way meditation should be—that mix of cogitation and omission. Zoro was honestly surprised, and had to smirk. It looked like Sanji was the one who decided when he could meditate and when he could not. Perhaps his panic attack had just been a fluke, then?

Zoro wasn't sure, but what he did know was that he couldn't be the one to decide. Sanji would always have to decide for himself and allow himself to melt into it. Meditation was not something forced or deliberate. It was natural and instinctive; innate and effortless. As it seemed, the cook was beginning to understand that important concept.

Zoro sighed as he stretched his legs out, leaning back on his palms and staring out at the wintry tableau in front of him through the glass. The clouds were shades of light grey like most days in the winter, but there was a hint of sunlight peeking through, the beams finding their way from the heavens to earthen soil and ice. It really was quite a beautiful winter day.

He crossed one outstretched leg over the other, relishing in the comfortable material of his sweat pants rubbing against his skin. Still leaning on one arm, Zoro massaged his temple with the other. His thoughts began to wander to his recent night on New Year's Eve and another certain night thereafter. His chest tightened with the ache of guilt and self-hatred.

He was losing himself again.

Zoro exhaled. The meditation had taken his mind off of his multiple betrayals to Kuina but now that he was back in the world of the living, he immediately felt that familiar stab in his heart whenever he thought of his actions. Was he really so pathetic? So desperate for sex that he'd just grab any girl?

But no. That hadn't been just 'any girl'. That hadn't been an act of desperation for merely sex. It had been a cry out for a familiarity lost to him, for his loneliness to disappear if just for a moment in time. It still didn't make him any less pathetic. He apologized to Kuina in his mind routinely, hoping that the strength of her heart and spirit would hear him—could forgive him. If only she could forgive him.

Zoro sat up, deciding to leave the cook to his meditation. He closed the fusuma door very softly, so as to not disturb the man, and headed for the bedroom. When he entered, Zoro allowed the door to creak half closed and stepped up to the side of the bed. His fingers unzipped the duffel bag situated on the mattress and gently reached inside, almost emotionlessly entranced. There was the clink of metal and he lifted out his white katana. Stared down at it deeply, and then clenched it in an aching grip.

He missed her. He loved her.

_I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry..._

He may have been physically stronger than her like men were destined to be, but his heart—his soul couldn't take this pain like a woman's could. He couldn't endure this. They were supposed to reach the top together, they had promised to make themselves invincible with the presence of each other; combining their strengths and weaknesses that they held in both gender and individualism. Giving everything of each other to be merged as one.

How could he accomplish _anything_ without her?

What was he supposed to do now?

He didn't flinch as his ears caught the sound of the door groaning open, knowing who was standing there.

"Yo," the blond greeted, one blue eye latched onto that white katana. His good shoulder was scrunched into the door frame as he leaned against it.

"Hey." Zoro set the sword back into his duffel bag gently. Then he faced Sanji. "How's your shoulder?"

"Better," the blond responded, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. "It'll probably be fully healed in another two months."

Zoro glanced away. "That's good," he mumbled.

Sanji sighed as he lit up. "Look, I told you, didn't I? Don't get all bluesy over it. It doesn't matter to me. I'm—" He cut himself off and looked to the ground. He was going to say he was used to injuries. He felt like he'd just stopped a train wreck from happening.

Zoro simply shrugged, turning his attention back to his duffel bag as he zipped it up. "So how was your New Year's, anyway?"

Sanji lifted himself off of the door frame, exhaling smoke when he replied, "Boring. I didn't get wasted, if that's what you're thinking."

Zoro smirked. "Tch. Didn't drink?"

"Had some wine with an old man. Not exactly an eventful night," Sanji reflected. New Year's Eve for him had been a relaxing doze of wine and chatter with Zeff and a couple close workers from the Baratie who'd had nothing else planned.

"An old man?" Zoro questioned with a grimace.

"Yeah," Sanji confirmed with a snarky glare. "The head chef at my restaurant; he's kind of like a father to me, or...something like that."

Zoro simply preserved the soft smirk on his face and continued to fondle pointlessly with his duffel bag.

Sanji inwardly fumed and let out a short scoff. "What? How was your night, oh almighty Zoro?"

Zoro shrugged the question off, not exactly wanting to get into how horrible the night had really been. "Typical New Year's night: bars, drinks, friends..."

Sanji caught onto his discomfort, leaning onto the bed and tilting his head under Zoro's at a natural distance—at least he hoped so. "Women?" he experimentally asked.

Zoro flared up slightly and poked the cook in the chest. "None of your business, nosey cook."

With an amused smirk, Sanji stepped back into his own personal space, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. But he inwardly shrunk a little at the response. Zoro really must have been a hit with the ladies that night. He continued, "So you're a ladies' man, are you? They like the strong silent type?"

Zoro grunted. "Watch where you're sticking your nose, curly-cue."

Sanji sighed, exhaling smoke in Zoro's face the process. "I know, I know. I'm just pressing. It's fun to see you get so pissy. No need to get all fucking defensive. Geez, mossy."

The green haired man grumbled at the smoke intrusion, and then decided to give the blond a taste of his own medicine. "Well how about you? Why didn't you go out? You seem like the partying type to me."

Sanji held the white cigarette between two fingers, staring at the ascending smoke dazedly before sighing and shrugging, lifting the sole of his foot and twisting the cigarette out on it. Zoro, amidst his curious glare caused by the cook's silence, waited intently for Sanji to speak.

But the blond asked evasively, "Want some food?"

Zoro nodded—ignoring the fact that his question had found no answer—and stalked out behind Sanji when the chef turned to get to work.

— «»»««» —

Swords clashed with shoes amidst the sound of rushing water that belonged to a frigid, dangerous waterfall. The dry winter air caused coarse panting to escape the lungs of two sparring young men, unrelenting as they collided once more. The green haired man rolled to the ground after the blond caught him with a trip kick and that he immediately followed up with an axe kick to his opponent's stomach. The swordsman reacted, rotating on the ground and missing the attack by mere inches. He hurriedly got to his feet to block another deadly kick with the back of his blade, throwing the cook's foot off of his sword and charging forward while his opponent stumbled backwards.

Sanji would have used his faltering steps to move into a backwards handspring, thus fending off Zoro's blades. But unfortunately, with his shoulder out of commission, he couldn't perform on his hands. He had to curse to himself—not only was he in trouble here with Zoro charging at him like a bull seeing red—but he couldn't even fight with his usual _style_. Nearly tripping on his feet from the snow and the unwanted momentum that Zoro had supplied him, Sanji decided the best thing to do to avoid his blades was to complete the inevitable fall and make use of his legs from the ground.

Zoro watched as the cook narrowly missed his swipes, blond locks soaring just under his steel. The momentary distraction of the cook's crafty dodge left him unable to block the simultaneous fiery kick to his chest. He wheezed just as there was another gasp of pain from the ground. Zoro looked down just in time to see the cook recovering from a jolt to his healing shoulder.

Sanji however did not let that slow him down, and took advantage of Zoro's shortness of breath and apparent surprise. Leaning on his good side, he sent an instantaneous foot to Zoro's abdomen, causing the bigger man to curl over, but said man was too stubborn to let the blow affect him completely. Still, it gave Sanji enough time to crawl back to his feet and into a more offensive position. He bounced buoyantly on the spot, holding his shoulder protectively and watching Zoro's eyes. Watched how those brown irises reflected the two strips of metal angled under them. Both of their misty pants seemed to echo in the presence of the crashing waterfall and crackling ice; through the crunch of snow and the whispers in the breeze, they coexisted and persevered amongst it all.

Zoro made the first move, his foot crunching suddenly under thick snow, serving to indicate for Sanji to prepare his attack or defence. Zoro twisted expertly like a tornado and the back of his blades came with him, parallel and synchronized. Sanji, with both hands casually in his pockets, drove his left foot into the snowy ground as securely as he could, then folded and lifted his right leg to chest level. Metal strained against rubber soles; teeth grinded with exertion; the snow crushed beneath their feet groaned and shrieked as the combatants attempted to hold their place amidst the bone-creaking pressure of impact.

Finally, their pent up energy was liberated, and the both of them stumbled backward before lunging forward for more. Blades met furiously with kicks at rapid speed. Sanji shot an inside kick towards Zoro's head that was sorely blocked by blades, then rewound it and drove his foot into another kick, which was also met with the clank of metal. Sanji finished off this combination with a direct roundhouse kick to Zoro's shoulder that made it through, since the swordsman's weapons had been preoccupied with the force of his attacks. He smiled when Zoro reeled back—that was a powerful kick and he knew it.

But still the man refused to go down. Sanji loved that resilience in him; it fed the flame within him, kept it burning furiously; gave birth to a desperate desire to take the swordsman down in competitive pursuit. The green haired man growled and charged forward. Sanji got his long legs ready.

But this time Zoro didn't make a move with his blades as Sanji's foot zoomed past his head. And as Sanji persisted to send his feet soaring in all directions, Zoro simply watched carefully and moved with his kicks like the air around them—untouched and unaffected. As if he were invisible. He moved smartly and waited for an opportunity. This was the patience of a swordsman, Sanji soon discovered.

When the blond delivered a powerful combination of kicks that threw off his own balance and left an opening, Zoro slinked into action from the shadows. In the blink of an eye, the dull side of his steel impacted two spots; the top of Sanji's uninjured right shoulder, and the side of his abdomen. And despite how much Sanji had prepared for and believed that the backside of a sword wouldn't hurt—it fucking _did. _The impact points felt like two men had simultaneously barraged him with aluminum bats. At least with Zoro wielding them. Though Sanji would only admit that in his mind.

Sanji clenched his teeth and stepped back, curling over in thinly veiled agony. The swordsman didn't waste a moment, creeping to his side for an attack. And that was when it happened. In a reaction of pure instinct, Sanji glanced to his side amidst his pain and kicked out furiously at Zoro's side, but with the position Zoro was in—twisting for a finishing attack—his prized white katana managed to be the inadvertent target for Sanji's kick and he couldn't stop it. The collision was head on, an aim that was both accidental and flawless. The tip of his foot managed to hook under the golden steel guard, effectively unsheathing the sword and sending the bare katana flying towards the half frozen lake.

Both of them gaped as the precious sword plopped into the water and vanished from sight.

Sanji's reaction to the sword's disappearance was surprisingly more sudden than that of its owner. "Shit!" he exclaimed, shoving Zoro haphazardly away from him. Then he began to tug his shoes and coat off in the midst of his definite sprint.

Zoro was in shock. "O-oi! Don't—hey, wait!" he shouted brokenly and stared incredulously with his hand outstretched when the cook disappeared into the frigid water after his katana. "That idiot!"

But now he knew he had to be the one on dry land to make sure Sanji could get out. He ran to the shore which was a mix of ice and water that looked black, watching as a blond head resurfaced for a moment—breathing dangerously fast—before plunging under again. Zoro then kept his eyes on the blurred outline of the idiot cook, soon realizing just how far away he was. Looking around furiously, Zoro spotted a lengthy, thick branch that was snowed over on the ground. Keeping a wary eye on the lake and crackling ice, Zoro hurriedly picked up the branch and shook the snow off of it. Then he sprinted back to make sure he was parallel with where Sanji had disappeared and waited for the man to resurface.

As soon as Sanji's body had hit the water, he felt a wall of glacial needles strike him on every nerve. And _oh shit_ was it ever biting and _frigid_. His body began to go into cold shock almost immediately; hyperventilation, heaving uncontrollably, and his heart was going on overdrive. Despite the rapid compressions of his lungs, Sanji refused to breathe in, covering his mouth and nose with his hands. But in that moment he knew he had to go up for air to try and regulate his breathing. His head broke the surface and his shaky gasps came with it. When he managed to get his breathing under more control—albeit not much—he stubbornly went under again.

Sanji was afraid to open his eyes in this harsh environment, feeling as though they would burst, but knew that he had to. He peeled them open and had to consistently blink and squint. Shit, eyes were so sensitive, this impervious water was _not_ a good combination for them. But he searched and searched with those rapidly blinking eyes, spotting the brilliant shine of Zoro's beloved katana rested between the rocky floor of the lake. He prayed dearly that it wasn't locked in one of the grooves.

His muscles and bones were creaking with protest as he propelled his feet and arms towards it. It hurt to swim, especially with the injury of his shoulder and various other sore spots caused by his recent match with Zoro. But he persisted. Because he knew how much that stupid sword meant to Zoro, and he didn't want to be the one responsible for losing it.

His own strength was fading from him rapidly, but the energy output was giving him something in return. He was close to that white katana now, and felt compelled by triumph when he reached out and grabbed the handle. Amidst the muffled buzz that came with underwater life, he swore he heard it clink with gratitude. The uneven contractions in his lungs were becoming stronger now, and when his throat was on the verge of involuntarily accepting dangerous freezing water, he knew he had to resurface now. He hurt _everywhere._ His lungs were burning, he needed air desperately. As he reached the surface, there was a thin layer of ice keeping him from precious air. Using what little strength Sanji had left, he tilted himself underwater and kicked out. The ice shattered like glass, and he poked his head above the surface hurriedly. He gasped and coughed uncontrollably as oxygen was now abundant, desperately shoving cracked ice aside as he swam through his exhaustion to the shore. In his blurred vision, he saw Zoro's form getting closer and closer, dragging something big with him.

He couldn't feel his legs kicking anymore. But he's swam himself close enough to the shore to reach its bottom. When his feet made contact with it, he stumbled and plunged back under. Up again he stood, breaking free from the ice water's clutches, keeping his head above water. Fuck, he could barely take another step. The shore was beginning to taunt him now as his strength dimmed and his legs folded, gently nudging him back underwater.

But most of his remaining strength was concentrated in his fist, clenching the handle of that katana so tenaciously.

And then something poked him. He grabbed it urgently, and his head was pulled back out of the frigid water. He spluttered and coughed, wrapping his arms tightly around the object that had saved him and catching a quick glance. A branch? The shattered ice drifted out of his path as that branch led him to the dry shore, and he rested his cheek against it tiredly, Zoro's white katana still in his tight grasp. Strong, dry hands grabbed his soaking pullover which was now plastered to his body. Sanji collapsed onto the snow and also something warm. He could feel his clothes turn rigid with ice almost instantly.

Zoro dragged the cook out of the lake, his legs throbbing from the knee down from having to trudge through the shoreline. When he reached dry land, Zoro fumed as he stumbled back and the cook's shivering and _icy _body crumpled onto his legs. But his temper quelled when he heard Sanji's shuddery breaths. He sounded like a fish out of water, hyperventilating like that. And then his eyes caught sight of what the blond had clenched in his left hand, fisted so tightly around it that his knuckles were whiter than the rest of him—and that was saying a lot, since Sanji was currently paler than a ghost.

His katana. Kuina's katana.

Zoro however had to ignore that for now and planted an awkward hand on Sanji's convulsing back, rubbing it in circles to calm his breathing and try to provide a little bit of warmth. "You idiot," he murmured. "You didn't have to do that."

Sanji was brought back to reality with Zoro's words, realizing how close he was to the swordsman and what the man's hand was doing to his back. He jerked away from him, the katana still clenched in his hands as he crawled to his feet weakly and backed up along the shoreline. Swaying, Sanji refused to fall and stuttered from the convulsions of his chilled body, "W-was my f-fault. Had t-to." However his bare, frozen feet had no sensation, which eventually made him stumble and collapse onto the snow from the unfamiliarity. Oh _god_, where were his feet? His hands?

Zoro stood and rushed over to the man shivering furiously on the ground, then ran over to get Sanji's abandoned jacket and shoes. He came back and wrapped the chattering blond in his coat, and then slipped dry socks on his ice cold feet, completing that with warm shoes. When he leaned in to obtain Kuina's katana, her spirit, from Sanji's fingers, they refused to budge. Whether that was because they were frozen together or because of Sanji's tenaciousness himself, Zoro did not know.

"Come on, let's get you inside, crazy cook."

— «»»««» —

Kuina's katana lay icily sheathed with its two other comrades in the corner of the comfort room. Sanji had passed out as soon as Zoro set his wet and frosty form down in front of the woodstove. He threw more pieces of wood into it, making sure to keep it emanating a strong and long-lasting heat. Then he searched the small room for Sanji's bags, finding them on top of the couch. Zoro dug through the one closest to him, finding it full of ice packs and various foods and utensils. Wrong one. He rummaged through the second backpack, and tugged out a pair of black sweatpants and a thick, woollen sweater the cook had luckily packed. Now came an apprehensive task: replacing the cook's clothes.

Zoro had never undressed a fully grown man before, but shook his head. Now was not the time to be so modest.

He started with Sanji's sweater, which seemed half frozen to his skin. He reached behind the blond's neck to separate the collar and when his fingers made contact with the Sanji's skin, he was finally able to truly feel just how icy the man's body was. His shaggy blond hair was frozen at the tips, prompting Zoro to curve down and check his heartbeat and breathing with an ear pressed flatly to the cook's chest. His breathing was shuddery, but his heartbeat was faster than normal, which was probably a healthy thing. It was making sure Sanji's body stayed warm, and so it needed to work harder than usual. Satisfied with this, Zoro returned to his previous task. He shakily went to the hem of Sanji's pullover. Zoro pulled the shirt up to Sanji's armpits. The unconscious man did nothing, didn't even stir, which set Zoro's mind at ease. Before he continued this task, the flickering light from the woodstove captured many pearly abnormalities on Sanji's torso. His eyes widened in shock.

Scars. Lots of them—too many to count. They were all very faint; not like Zoro's own, deep and _very_ noticeable scar spanning across his entire torso. Sanji's were delicate and horrible; beautiful and gruesome, webbed onto his abdomen and chest endlessly and only caught by Zoro's eyes through their enhancement by the flickering fire. They even crawled behind his front to his back. Zoro felt sick. Shit, there were _so many._ Too many.

Shaking his head, Zoro made his resolve. This wasn't his business. _Just ignore it_, he told himself. _Just ignore it and keep going_.

He carefully lifted the darkened pullover over Sanji's bandaged shoulder and immediately felt guilty when he caught a small amount of blood peeking through. "Shit," he cursed to himself. Removing the shirt completely, he placed the woollen sweater over the blond's bare upper body like a blanket while he went to search Sanji's bag once more for clean bandages. He grinned in triumph when he found another roll hidden in one of the front pockets, and moved quickly back to Sanji's prone form. Zoro got to work, unravelling the used, wet and stiff bandages and replacing them with warm, clean and flexible ones. His shoulder wound had been agitated, but it wasn't bleeding out. Just a small amount, which was a relief.

Now he took the sweater and lifted the cook's lithe and slack body off of the ground so he could put it on him. After this, he was halfway done. His hands had to pause over the man's belt, dread bubbling up in his throat, but he breathed in, deciding to get it over with. He unbuckled the belt hastily and unzipped the rough fly that was frigid from those drenched jeans which served no purpose but to make Sanji more frozen than he already was. They had to come off, that much was certain.

Zoro peeled the denim off of the cook's impossibly thin but muscular legs, moving downwards until he was able to lift the wet material over his feet, before throwing them to the side where they made a dull splat on the wooden planks of the floor. His eyes purposely avoided Sanji's midsection as he went for his underwear next, which would undoubtedly have a very _visible_ outline due to the dampness. But his fleeting glances couldn't help but notice how much slighter the man was without proper clothing. His hips were so narrow; his torso so lean, and his neck so long. His toned muscles and abs were jointly delicate and defined. Sanji was thoroughly slender in a deceptive sort of way—Zoro just had to wonder how the blond managed to pack such _power_ in that lanky frame.

Zoro cast his gaze aside as his hands found the elastic band hugging each side of Sanji's hips, and pulled down, allowing himself to look when it was time to entangle them out of his feet. Then he looped those black sweat pants over Sanji's feet and legs, and pulled them up, looking away until he knew the cook was fully covered, snapping the elastic band in place. He had to manually lift his hips to get the band over his ass, too. He felt entirely stupid about the whole thing—he was being too modest, really, as if the cook had anything that he _didn't_—but somewhere within him, he felt like he was doing Sanji a solid, giving him this privacy, this decency.

After Zoro slipped warm socks on his feet, Sanji was fully clothed in comfortable, warm material, but despite this the cook was nevertheless shivering horribly; his body still working fervently to recover from such a cold shock. Zoro grabbed the blanket Sanji usually used for sleeping and simultaneously set his backpacks along with the blanket to the ground before lifting the blond and setting him on the couch. Picking up the blanket once more, he spread it out in front of the woodstove where Sanji had once been, and repositioned the cook there.

Finally, he left the room to grab his comforter from the bedroom. Once back, Zoro planted the comforter over the cook and watched carefully as the guy's expression softened in his unconsciousness, seemingly more at ease now. He even had a more healthy colour and glow to his face, too. Zoro then glanced out the window at the sun now setting over the icy, desolate winter land, and sighed as his gaze went back to the blond lying face up on the ground. The fire was still emitting a comfortable heat; the cook was insulated by dry clothes and blankets; all that was left was to take care of his own frozen legs.

After changing into sweats and cozy socks, Zoro came back to take a look at the cook. Something was missing still, the guy didn't look warm enough. Perhaps his own body heat. Yes. Everything would help.

He curved down on his knees, and settled onto one side of Sanji's body overtop the comforter. He felt the most logical side to take care of was the one not facing the woodstove, almost as if he was mimicking its job, if only a little. Providing heat and life to the other side of him.

Zoro lay there on his side—his back to Sanji—staring at Kuina's blade in the corner of the room as it dripped with thawed snow and ice, silently thanking Sanji for salvaging her spirit.

— «»»««» —

Hours later into the night, the first thing he heard as he was brought back into consciousness was the crackling of firewood and his own deep, calm breathing. His entire body felt numb but warm and cozy. His mouth was slightly parched, but otherwise not too distracting. His left shoulder had a dull ache, and a variety of other areas emitted weaker throbs. When he allowed his eyelids to lift open, he was met with the low, wooden ceiling of their cabin, an ovular portion of it flickering in the darkness.

Mentally scanning his body, he knew he was in new clothes. He wasn't wearing any underwear, either. He connected the dots and cringed to himself. Even the realization that Zoro had probably seen his dick was nothing compared to the fact that there was no getting around the scars.

Damn. He'd seen them...must have.

Sanji sighed sorely as he turned his head to the left, seeing and sensing the familiarity of the woodstove. Then, feeling something pressing up against his right side, he directed his head towards it. Blue eyes met with tousled green hair, and realization hit him. He would've jerked away, but his body was honestly too tired and heavy to waste energy on that exertion.

But Zoro appeared to know that he was awake, as his voice reached his ears, "You're so stupid..." There was a pause, and Sanji waited for the expectant words to follow. Zoro spoke them without moving from his spot. "But, thanks."

Sanji would've scoffed if he had the energy. Instead he just responded softly, "You've got nothing to thank me for. I kicked it in to begin with, was only fair that I—"

"You don't understand," Zoro interrupted bluntly. "That was _crazy_, what you did. So I'm thanking you, take it or leave it."

Sanji puffed out, allowing a short chuckle to escape in the process as he recalled his actions. "Yeah. I guess it was a little crazy."

"It was _a lot_ crazy."

Sanji smiled with authenticity. "You're welcome, shitty marimo."

Zoro said nothing to this. Silence reigned for minutes as the two relished each other's presence, feeling an odd but strangely contented sort of comfort that neither could really understand. It was deep within this relaxed silence that the swordsman verbalized anything else. And at what he did say, Sanji was genuinely surprised.

"She died."

The blond shifted his gaze to the right subtly, towards Zoro, before staring straight ahead at the ceiling again. He let the man go on.

"That katana is Wado Ichimonji. It was my girlfriend's sword, but...she died," he clarified with strangely no strain in his tone. Almost emotionlessly driven despite the intensity of his words.

Sanji kept his shock to himself; didn't create any motion to speak or to make any other noise. He just listened in quiet horror at Zoro's revelation. Listened while his heart sank lower than the fleece and wood beneath him; sank deep down into the depths of the earth where it was buried in the thick frozen crust and forgotten. And with that, he couldn't even begin to imagine how Zoro's heart felt. Probably heavier than he could ever imagine. Probably nonexistent.

The minutes went by, and that was what it took for Zoro to work up the courage for his next exposure. "She died and I..." he stared despondently at her blade in a short pause. "I haven't been able to live with myself ever since."

And this was the moment where Sanji did know where to draw the line. Because even as the man was letting some light shine through that outer shell of his, this vulnerable moment was not the time to pry it open, like he had so previously desired. It was appropriate to let him speak, to allow him to shed a willing layer, to simply be there and listen. Just listen. Not merely to his words, however few there were of them, but his breathing, his presence, his soul. His strengths and weaknesses. His existence.

But even still Sanji had to question the man's uncharacteristic exposure. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked, softly.

"Because," Zoro kept his soft gaze on Wado, Kuina's blade, her soul, his everything, his only thing left. "You kept her spirit alive."

— «»»««» —


End file.
